Stories are born in those moments.
Fragmented phrases and ideas in slivers, a frayed conversation and a weather-beaten setting for adventure or romance or danger and death. Characters woven out of cobwebs in my mind, laced up with a concept, bones built of plot and conclusion.
All of this happens before the tea, of course.
I have a mug, over there on the shelf. The teabag is up in a box behind me. I started the kettle when I started this post, and all three will call my senses back to a lucid reality in just a few more minutes. I do need it, the logic, but I so enjoy this fantastic, hazy fog my mind is in right now. Mornings -- even rainy mornings -- are my most creative time. But I have a very long and critical survey to fill out, so I will steep my tea.
First cup of the day.