Fiorella's morning routine is as ritualistic as a Japanese tea ceremony, but much less graceful.
After coming downstairs, she glances at the front page of the Wall Street Journal to see if the feature story is interesting, then turns to the local daily, reading it in order, omitting sports, business, and advertising, of course, and saving the funnies for last, like frosting on a cake. Next she solves the crossword puzzle and the jumble, resorting to pen and paper if the anagrams are having a hard time coming that morning.
Then she opens her trusty laptop and, again in order, checks out the news, the weather, Fiorella, and her e-mail. After that is breakfast, always the same: milk, a cup of spoon-sized shredded wheat, and six pills.
Then she panics. She knows she should be writing--that is her job now--but sometimes she has to lure herself into it, which she is doing at this very moment. If she writes a Fiorella column, her eager fingers will be much more likely to open up her documents file and continue working on the paranormal novella she is currently laboring over.
I mean, writing sex scenes is really a bitch!