I’m in love.
This morning I wrote the first thousand words of the first draft of my fifth novel. They weren’t very good words. But they were words. I will write more tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. That’s how books are born.
This morning I had two emails this morning from people who had read my books. Complete strangers, who have spent time with my words – hours of their time – looking for a message, taking in my stories and my experiences and fashioning it into something of their own. They were grateful. That is why I do what I do.
Writing is a way of making love to the world. It is a way of offering thanks, of bowing down in acknowledgement and surrender. A way of working towards accepting the difficult, messy lessons, as well as the luminous, joyful ones.
I stand in my sunny office, bowing down to my red laptop, to the view from my window, to this steaming cup of earl grey. Bowing down to my love, hundreds of miles away as I type, who is bowing down to me.
Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.