A tiring weekend, but an immensely satisfying one. That’s what happens when you’re working to polish a chapter that you’re already in love with.

I had two of those, this weekend. Two of those felicitous comings-together of inspiration, substance and style; the happiest kind of writing, the stuff that seems to hang in the air waiting to be picked.

Who knows why that happens, that finding of exactly-right words and phrases and plot-propulsion. Where does it come from? Is it the open mental channel to the best part of your writerly self? Is it luck? Or latent skill? Whatever it is, I wish it would happen more often.

Gave the chapters the “read test” into the tape recorder; played them once this afternoon, and twice more on the drive back to Springfield. Smiled at myself. A lot. Made me forgive myself–a little bit, anyway–for the thorns and uglies and awkwardnesses that remain to be ironed out.

Self-forgiveness, but not too much, is what creating is about. Too much, and you settle for less than the best of yourself. Too little, and the process stops dead; nothing gets done, nothing moves forward.

Send good thoughts next week: With six uninterrupted days to work and some major challenges ahead, there’ll be ample opportunity for inspiration and failure (temporary failure, one hopes.) All we can do is hope for more days, more work, like today gave me.

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