Before I left for the house on Friday evening, good friend K., knowing the tasks I was facing, sent me an email. “I hope you fall in love.”  Could any wish be more welcome, or more aware of the challenges that lay ahead in the blank space of Weekend?

I expect that for a committed writer, a good day is made up of somewhat different elements than it might hold for a relatively sane person. A good day in Bizarro World, maybe. Saturday was such a day.

After a solid few hours of tape-transcription on Friday night (and a middle-of-the-night wakeup call by several more significant ideas), I’d given myself the rare permission to sleep in, and—wonder of wonders—to blow off the morning’s usual three-miler. Open the doors and let the air in. Open the doors and let the thoughts in. Cats fed, coffee made, surrounded by silence, I was ready.

On Saturdays, I stand at the start of the day crouched like a runner waiting for the “Go” pistol to fire. Only the day itself will tell me whether it’s going to be a sprint or a marathon. I narrow my focus not toward one finish line but toward a dozen, looking for the part of the story with the most emotional resonance to get me off the line; the character element or the plot point that offers the cleanest, most persuasive direction to give me a head start. Several minutes of middle-of-the-night notes had left me rarin’ to go….

By the time I came up for air, four hours had passed.

This was one of those days in which time does not speed by—because time does not exist, except as an abstraction; an inconvenience. I was note-taking almost too fast for my hand to keep up. The transcriptions of the night’s thoughts opened doors to a dozen more ideas, with other promising thoughts waiting just out of sight. Shapes of scenes. Character revelations. Secrets whispered in my ear. Not the blinding revelation of the book’s finish that I had hoped would come (and know eventually will), but some lovely stops along the way. Not every compelling step to the end was there, not a true falling in love, but close enough for improv.

After a quick stop for a head-clearing nap, the headlong rush started all over again—or, perhaps more precisely, it picked up where I’d left off.

One new-found discovery of how deep into Lynn-Land I really was: reading glasses. Without them, I can’t see to read; with them, I can’t see to walk…but, as I wore those glasses into the hallway, I realized that I was so deeply immersed in what I was doing that not-seeing the hallway didn’t make a bit of difference. I couldn’t see. I didn’t need to. The physical house was only an inconvenient minor stop on my way to somewhere else.

This is the place (why not throw in yet another image while I’m at it) of the full-out “Lynn is not here right now. Please leave a message” mode. Anyone speaking to me during those breathless sessions would probably have been met with a vacant “wha’?” look.

The withdrawal from such a day is a little disorienting; a little emptying. It leaves one wanting to go to bed at around 7 p.m….just to see where the next day will lead.  And if it is as full of other-world as Saturday was—well, that will be just fine with me.