Could any two children from the same parent be as different as mine?

Spiritkeeper followed me day and night. I lived inside it. It lived inside me. Even when it was hardest, it was mostly always there waiting for me when I needed it to be. It whispered to me constantly. It made me smile. It was energizing. Breathtaking. Endlessly surprising. In a book about love, I dwelt in love. I surprised myself with the long-dormant reminders of what love can be in me.

The book I’m writing now…a different thing. Still beloved of my heart, it rests less easily there. More an equal partnership between heart and head, it refuses me, sometimes, when I ask the head to speak to me. I chase this book, mostly; it does not chase me.

Last book, a sweet seducer that made love to me endlessly. This book, a coquette; a tease, less interested in my wellbeing than in its own.

The last book propelled me, beyond tiredness or mood (or so I choose to remember with the writer’s famously revisionist memory.) This one spins me like a top, sometimes; spends my internal momentum moving me nowhere. That one handed me its lightningstruck ending in a middle-of-the-night bolt of transforming inspiration. This one stands in the corner with its arms folded, refusing to give me anything. At least, so far.

That one was easy. This one…harder, somehow. Yet, both are full of wonders, daily. In both, I still  find those exquisite moments of “oh my.” And, easy or challenging, isn’t that the reason we keep at this thing, after all?

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