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Sara Paretsky’s fictional detective V.I. Warshawski once riffed on comfort foods, mentioning that all comfort foods begin with the letter p. I’m not sure that ALL comfort foods fit that rule, but there are an awful lot that do: pepperoni, pasta, pita, pastrami, piroshki, pashka, pickles, popovers, pistachios, porridge, pudding, pizza.

Ah, pizza. I’ve been told that it’s not a comfort food, but it is. It’s elegant really: a little bread, a little cheese, and you have the added tactile pleasure of being able to pick it up and eat it with your fingers. The only thing better than pizza is pizza eaten while tucked into bed, late at night, with a good movie or great book for company.

I’m weird that way, I guess. I’m always my most inspired in bed or in the bathtub. (Get your minds out of the gutter, I don’t mean that sort of inspiration), it’s just than when I’m propped up by piles of pillows my brain flips into gear, and words flow directly to my pen and paper, or, more often, to the pads of my fingers as they press the keys on my laptop.

Personally, I think my perfect job would be getting paid to stay in bed and make a few phone calls, and otherwise just write. (Alternatively, I’d love to have an office that felt as comfortable and safe as my bedroom, but that’s beyond the realm of the possible, I suppose.)

The thing is, tonight, my head isn’t full of words, it’s full of plans I can’t yet commit to a public place. Things to do, to find out, to set in motion.

More…possibilities.