these characters I thought I had created, but now they surprise me by striding out of the scene and into a space I didn't envision, saying words I didn't imagine.
Time ticks by, but I don't feel it.
When I climb out, hours later, in a daze, squinting in the sunlight to walk the dog, the voices in my head keep chattering. Words wind out from beyond the trees. I rush home to write them down.
At the end of the day I am tired, like after a good workout, but without the sweaty clothes and sore muscles. I paste a silver star in my planner because I do that now, reward myself for good writing days.
The month of August I have one star. September I have four.
I wish I loved my book. No--
I wish I loved writing my book.
I wish I had no doubts about the futility of the endeavor, no guilt about being a writer in this dark world.
Because isn't it a frivolous thing-- some days-- most days-- to know that real live human beings are suffering and afraid, while I sit doing nothing to help them?
Instead of writing I should take to the streets. Cry out against injustice. Speak out. Stand up. Kneel down.
And why do we tell stories anyway?
Why do make art or music? Why do we dance?
Why do we bother.
Sure, it makes us feel happy. Makes us feel sad. Makes us feel something, anything. Makes us pause, think question reconsider listen remember care. Hope. Reminds us that we are here, each one of us, alone. Together.
I open my file and descend into my story
Today, I will have a good writing day.