The prospect of delight. A day dictated by no other will but one’s own. A day to be fierce about; committed to.
Writing with a full day ahead is an incomparable joy.
Commerce demands that the working writer work at night, applying whatever scant energy is left after the wringing days are done. Some nights, many nights, there’s nothing much to spare.
Possibilities live by daylight. And fearless judgment. And forgiveness for mistakes. And ways out; ways around. The world is bound by the steps between bedroom and writing space, and yet that world is infinite. Whatever happens on the clock has no place here.
When a writing day is ahead, the writer goes to bed happy. She faces forward, even as her eyes close, full of what’s to come. Even when doubt stalks the story or a problem stubbornly resists resolution, night’s door will open onto fresh possibility. There are pages full of beloved people waiting. And they are hers to discover with everything in her.
The 100% days. The reality-I-make days. The where-did-the-time go days. Whatever is wrong, is distressing, is worrying, is uncontrollable, is irresolvable, cannot be as strong as what may happen in that full-energy time. A day at the page does that. Nothing else can.
And writing on cloudy days: Those are the best of all. Grey is strange hope. The veil drawn against changing light. Forgiving, quiet light, soft in the eye. Light not harsh, not challenging. A melancholy that matches the mood of the tale. An exterior much like the inside always is. Sometimes we draw the curtain against the sunshine, to dull the contrast between out and us. Sometimes the day never makes an appearance, even when it’s there.
We can’t quite explain it. Couldn’t expect you to understand it. Isolation in full attention can be an extraordinary gift.
Today is Wednesday. 72 hours before I can come back to me. And happily turn myself inside out for a world that only I can see.