Has spring come early?

There is something in the air; something in me. I am hearing the higher music that moves me to the page. Nothing is changed. Nothing is different. And, for the writer’s moment, everything is.

I don’t understand it. I am not visited by the consuming clarity that is the finest, favorite moment of the craft. I come home from work too tired to commit to anything but snipping stray threads from the chapter in progress, and yet I’m not fidgeting about it.

I read the word-count exploits of other writers and I smile, pleased for them, but not pressed to march to that drum. I spend the time before sleep finding my way to the immersion that will turn the current scene into a labor of love…we write best when we write from inside the chapter, remember? I am breathless at prospects…still as uncertain and insecure and rejection-phobic as always, but not minding it so much. Why?

I told someone very recently that I am content with my life but not complacent about it. Is the contentment the product of the work or the cause of it? Were I able to put these moments and thoughts into a little box and bring them out when I need them.

I write. It’s who I am, and what. And in these breathless days, it’s enough.