You’ve given hours to the pages–years. You have been diligent and careful. You have written, read, reviewed, reworked. Now, if you are very lucky, there comes a moment in the writing day in which you realize that you have not been breathing; that the world suddenly does not exist.

Holding your breath, yes. Startled into stillness, afraid to move or speak. Looking into an inner cosmos so vast that you disappear into it. You are here and you aren’t. Because of what you have done.

You have arrived at the moment of the Held Breath.

This is the moment writers live for. A rare place; a glorious alchemy. The finite expression of an infinite is.

Some ideas have the power do that. Not all. But some.

How you got here…no clue. You can’t make the feeling happen. You can’t make it last. You can’t re-create it, as much as you long to. You don’t exactly know what you’ve done to deserve it. You hope that the deserving will live through the night. You fear—you know—that it will go away.

All you can do is ride it. Ride the suspended breath. Revel in the distancing of the world. Remember it and write what it gave you. Work hard so it might happen again. And wait. Wait for the next moment in which you will not feel the need to breathe.

 

 

 

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