I am exhausted. And happy.
Brought two full chapters to life this weekend, finishing the one begun, finding the way to the other. Both have passed the readback test…gloriously so. I emerge back into the world shaky and surprised to find that reality is still here, pretty much as I left it.
This was a weekend for the quiet “lemme at ’em”. Of the serene “where did the time go?” A weekend in which my tired dyslexic brain turned the page to scrambled eggs long before my energy and passion for the work gave out.
This weekend, I wrote the love scene.
Tricky, this one. Inside out. Writing the scene as a tactile exercise, from the experience of the woman who is experiencing it by seeing herself reflected in her lover’s experience. Frank about what it is. But not squishy-explicit. Filled with doubt. And wonder. And possessed, ultimately, by what may be one of my favorite lines from any character, ever. A realization: “Love. How the hell had that happened?”
Love comes easily to me. At least on the page. And in my heart. Although not, sadly, in my life. Not yet.
But that’s the thing about love. And acts of love. And writing, too—for me, perhaps the richest act of love of all. In each encounter, each heartbeat, each page, there is generous room for possibility. And that keeps us going. Keeps us hoping. And fills us with the potential for joy.