In an unexplainable moment, I am complete in the company of friends unknown to the real world.

I am grateful for momentary gifts of the ecstatic word. Surprised, shocked, at the depths of despair that come with knowledge of the realities outside.

I am full of hope, faith, darkness. All of them fleeting, as they should be.

A few words with a dear friend, today, in the midst of a satisfying day at the page. She has read 300 pages in two days—and not, I think, simply because I needed her to. What is it about the restorative faith of a friend; the favor in an honest response that may well carry the sting as well as the honey?

Went back to find where she was in the work; found myself reading as she did, in a gulp. Rediscovered with fresh wonder the seventy pages left to her. And was gloriously reassured (at a time when I am as likely to chastise myself as to offer praise) that I have created exactly what I intended to.

If one is wise, one does not climb that rose-covered ladder of satisfaction. One examines it from safe distance, knowing that, with the next word, page, chapter, one must scale it all over again. For the instant it is sweet and sustaining. But the thorns will always be there.

But not today. This was a day of cold outside, warm creation inside. And, from that single friend, all the encouragement I have been waiting, wishing, hoping for. For a moment, I could release the doubt and let it fly. For a few precious hours, I could let the uncertainty go away and give myself unquestioningly to the beloved thing.

We write to make echoes in the darkness. We write to make our voices whisper against an eternal silence; to be Here. These are neither new understandings or original ones, but they are, in this minute, abundantly mine.

I am a writer.

I rejoice that perhaps you are.

I wish for you, on rare days like this one, all the emotional honey that my dear friend gave to me.

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