Lisa Loomis details the ins and outs of her routine before she sits down to write.
I get up pretty early, six to six-thirty, dress in my workout clothes, and then go to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I stand by our machine and savor the rich coffee aroma as it streams from our temperamental grind and brew Bosch unit.
The house is quiet because the kids are away at college and my husband Dennis is usually out at that time taking care of our critters. I add a dash of sugar and then cream watching it swirl into the black liquid. Taking my first cup upstairs into the loft where my desk is I check email.
I have really crappy internet so sometimes the day doesn’t start off so easy. I glance outside to my mountain view, into a grove of aspens, to see what the weather is doing. If it’s a beautiful summer day I know it’s going to be a bit harder for me to focus on writing than in the winter, because I really want to be outside, savoring our short summer months. Dennis usually comes in about then with fresh eggs from our eight chickens, four regular size, four Bantam’s (smaller chickens with smaller eggs).
“Morning,” I call down. “Morning,” he says. I grab my empty cup and bound down the carpeted stairs and meet him in the tiled kitchen at the coffee machine. “Only five today,” he’ll say as he lays the eggs on the counter. Then he will lean in and give me a tender morning kiss. I will tell him about the emails he needs to address, for our company, Loomis Construction, the ones only he knows how to answer.
He’s a worker bee, doesn’t like technology or administration, so it’s always hard for me to get him upstairs to respond. I still can’t get it through his head that the world is different, expectations different. He was raised an upstate New York small town farm boy and still sees the world from that perspective much of the time. Before we address answering emails I grab my second cup of coffee. I will need it, as he’s in a hurry to get out the door to work; making me feel like I’m holding him up.
When we get through the business part and he is off to work I dive into my social media. I don’t always find this piece easy, what to say, what might be interesting, am I hammering too much on the same things? So Facebook friends, blog followers, never be shy to talk or suggest something, would love to hear from you.
Writing is sort of a lonely world after all; I mean I have my characters, but someone reaching out is always nice. Once that’s finished I go outside and up the wooden stairs where I say good morning to our three pygmy goats, Molly, Taft, and Zev. They are the cutest things, very distinct personalities, and will follow us like a dog on our walks, only closer.
They are smaller than a normal goat and ours are very different colors. Molly is brown with a white ring circling her nose, white on the tip of her ears, tail and partial on her legs. She is the most aloof, although I think it’s a bit of an act; ignore her, watch out, she’ll head-butt you. Zev is silver/gold with black socks and ridge down his back (sign of a true pygmy goat). He’s the lover, wants to get his face right up close to mine, smell me, nuzzle. If we let them onto the deck with us he comes and sits by me. Taft is our wanderer, our escape artist. He is grey with a wide white bellyband and black socks and ridge.
People ask us why goats? Milk? Do you eat them? No, we just laugh at them. They head-butt each other, do little daffy jumps into the air as they run, love Chex-mix. I call them my “bad goats” in a teasing manner, but they can be. They eat everything and are now big enough, and strong enough, that it’s harder for me to wrangle them away from things I don’t want them to get into.
The room above the garage, which the staircase leads to, has work out equipment and I get that piece out of the way. Either elliptical, bike, or walking treadmill; I used to run until I had hip replacement surgery in November of 2013. After that, in the summer, I wander a little, water the flowers, and check out my planter boxes, trim.
When I’m happy with that it’s off to shower, and then put on my writing hat (not literally). In the winter months the goats have an indoor/outdoor pen another flight up so I just call out to them, after my workout I race through the cold and snow to the warmth of the house. I am usually sitting down writing/editing no later than 10 a.m.
Two years after the financial meltdown of 2008, Ronie Dugan’s life continues to unravel. Seeking clarity she escapes to a small island in the Bahamas. Can the island, a horse named Joe, and a shy Bahamian dock master, help her to see life differently?
A Chick lit novel set on the small island of Green Turtle Cay, Abacos. Bahamian dialect dictionary at the end of the book.
Lisa Loomis was born in Oakland, California and raised in San Jose until she was a sophomore in high school. Her father then took a job in the San Diego area where he moved the family to Escondido, California. She finished high school there and went on to Palomar Junior College and then finished at San Diego State University with a degree in Finance. Lisa now resides in Park City, Utah with her husband and two children.