I know I’ve posted about this before in one way or another, but on the way into the office this morning I was struck again by the exquisite clarity of a feeling. I wanted, needed, to put it to paper again. Good juju for inviting it to come back.

Perhaps you’ve felt it: the moment when, as a writer, the world goes away. The writer is surrounded by silence; a lensing-down to the possibilities of an instant in created time. The physical world ceases to exist. The head is filled with the sounds and not-sounds of the created place. If there is truth to parallel universes, this is the moment in which one can truly glimpse them. When one can live in them.

This is the place of no-time. And it is as close to nirvana as the writer comes. The visitation from the void. And the voice. The opening of a place once cannot see. A reality touched but never owned.

It doesn’t happen when one wants it to, this elusive Focus. It doesn’t come when bidden. Nothing—not preparation or desire or wishin’ and hopin’—can make it appear. It happens when it wants to. And when it does, it is incomparable.

Even thinking about it, even feeling it for an instant, is like looking through a glorious door at an extraordinary world beyond. Just a hint of it, like the one I had this morning, is enough to make one want to take a u-turn in the car, blow off the job for the day, and settle down for a day at the chapter. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. But I wanted to.

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