Commerce wants my days. It’s the trade I make. The stuff I must write so I can write the stuff I want to write.

The gift I give me in the morning…the last thing I do before preparations for the day consume me: I read myself. Not my moods, or the creakings of a body still strung with the spiderwebs of sleep that I can’t brush away–this is a reading of a paragraph or two from the earnest-but-way-too-tired efforts of the night before. A paragraph whose singing might carry me through the day. A reminder of who I am.

It is a spare gift, admittedly. But it is full of grace and light. A reminder of why it’s worth it, those hours of adapting my desires to demands that are beyond my natural ability to love.

Even the half-cooked meal that is an unfinished passage is brain-food. It is my own personal Breakfast of Champions with the power to carry me into the day with a well-nourished fortitude. Ask me whether I would be willing to cast off the job entirely to live the twilight-life of the hopeful writer…not sure that I would. I trade the luxuries of a wonderful apartment, spur-of-the-moment decisions to hit the steak-frites trail and the handy, pantried case of wine for the teeth-gritted tolerance of writing for others’ needs.

Commerce makes us expendable, despite the best we can do. The nature of business makes us disposable; lambs too easily sacrificed on the cold stone of the bottom line. In the space in which we write as Writers, the act comes first. We worship in the house of the sacred word. The considerations that come once we are published…well, that’s another carton of curdled milk.

For now, I carry myself into the 9-5 hours with sentences full of promise. The mysterious deer that wanders into Central Park, an urban wonder soon to be slaughtered by dogs. The steeple bell that sounds in an imagination that sees the darkness that will end the day. The man who has lived by the graces of his art, only to bring himself to the dire understanding of what that commitment will really cost. Even when the writer is willing to open herself to exactly and only what everyday life offers, the Glorious Ordinary is limited and small next to imagining’s gifts.

And so I remind myself. I hold the better me with the same cramping fingers that grip the life vest that spares one from drowning. The gift I give me is the understanding—despite all the tearings and assaults of real life—of who I actually, truly, am.

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