Well, it’s happened. At 11:30 yesterday, I got the voice-in-the-ear:

The new book said “Write me.”

There is a euphoria in this space. A kind of breathlessness and joy, like looking into the face of the gods. Yes. Yes. And no.

As Byrne notes in Everything, in the realization of love: “How the hell did that happen?”

Like Alice in Wonderland, suspicious of the little cakes and vials that invite her to “Eat me” or “Drink me”, I am holding off the temptation. Like a seducee who is powerfully drawn to take the encounter the rest of the way, I am cautious. Not yet. Not quite yet.

Is it the good angels who are telling me to start? Or the deeper psychological ones who are inviting me to start before the story is really ready? Dunno.

Considering the huge task ahead in the opening chapter, creating light from the dirt of a diseased and neglected vacant lot, waiting is the right thing to do. When the time is right, I will gather the images around me until I can see nothing else.

Or maybe I’ll start before the afternoon is over. What the hell?

I am going to sit with it a while longer before I begin. I’ll use this energy to hold open the door to the ethers, to let more of the story walk through. I’ll do what I’ve been doing this weekend, listening to the story’s soundtrack (John Adams, Philip Glass, Steve Reich) to let it tell me the story.

As I think I’ve mentioned before in this space, delayed gratification is the measure of adulthood. Isn’t it?

Not a bad way to start my next century of posts.

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