2 a.m. Saturday morning.

Hello, I’m writing to you from not-here. From joy. From peace. From can’t-wait-to-get-up-in-the-morning. From let’s-not-waste-a-minute of this day. The physical place I am, the house on the river, has all the comfortable sameness of 30 years’ experience of it.

But that’s where the resemblance ends.

The book started to speak to me tonight. It started speaking to me in its voice, not mine. Faces, plot—they sat at the edge of my bed and smiled at me, instead of sitting in the corner making faces.

A sense of order stepped toward me out of the darkness. Suddenly, I found myself standing straight in the middle of the idea, of the created world. I am not looking at it through the half-open door; I am here on the other side, writing to you from the mist. The characters have taken up residence in my head. Sweet Carson, my ill-fated, deadly little Raphael. Byrne, who is my thorniest self. Terry, who will seek himself at the farthest unknowns of human-ness.

Hello, guys. Bye-bye reality.

There is air in this world. A place to breath. A place of Possibility, with worry set aside. It is not here for me 24 hours. But it is blessedly close enough.

I have known writers for whom their craft was like a 9-to-5 job. Starting the writing day was like pickin’ up the ol’ lunch pail and headin’ out to clock in for the day. That world is not this world, not my world here in the mist. 5 hours here can feel rich as a week.

The real world has faded around me. Wish I could show it to you, this place I’ve gone. Wish you were here.

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