These are the things I am trying to remember as I sit at the bottom of the well. Not to make me feel better, but to make it all less leaden. I am trying to remember things I already know.

The gift that writing is.

The gift of deep feelings. Even the less-than ones.

The richness of the characters I have brought to life.

The expansiveness and complexity of their journeys.

The fact that I have known love. The fact that I do. Even if some of it is imaginary.

Passages of glittering clarity and complex ideas.

Language I’ve created that can make me cry, even now.

The delighted moment of did-I-actually-write-that?

The quest for a different truth.

The deeper, greater place that I can see.

The breath of the infinite.

The canopy of stars in my head.

The something more.

The possibilities of next.

The grandness of always.

Things are not necessarily horrible. Even at the bottom of the well.

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