Got a note from an old English professor of mine asking me to write and let them know how I was doing. I loved my English professors from the university I went to x100; they were some of the most intelligent and passioned people I have ever met. One was an ex hippie who memorized Victorian poetry, another a Vietnam vet who knew Shakespeare like the back of his hand and smoked a pipe during class breaks, another was shy and soft spoken but argued his points vehemently, another could speak in Middle English and was THE authority on grammar, and the last taught in a language you could understand, especially story telling, her favorite topic. They were there for us in and out of the classroom; one of them actually counseled Husband while he was going through his divorce.
I had a great Memoirs class with the professor that wrote to me; it was actually one of the reasons I read memoirs as frequently as I do now. It was also a class that really stuck to me how much I enjoyed writing. At the end of the class, we had to turn in twenty pages of our own memoir. I wrote a few scenes and strung them together with a common theme; I got an A and was told I was great with dialogue and keeping a story flowing. I decided then that I was better at writing stories than research papers.
Anyway, hearing from him and remembering my classes really revved my enthusiasm for writing. I was out late Saturday night and spent today running errands and taking naps, but I got a few words in tonight.