Sometimes in the evening, when things have quieted down, Caroline brings a book and sits on this furry cushion to keep me company as I write.
It is the very best kind of company, this little girl who reads and stops every five minutes to tell me what a good book it is.
I am still writing. I hesitate to talk about it, but sometimes I think it is good to say something, even if just to remind myself I am doing it.
Such a weird place, the arena of writing. What does one say?
Hi, I'm a writer?
No way. I'm not saying that. I am only wondering if someday I will be able to say that.
Here is where I'm at with my story...in a vague, nebulous place. But. I know where I need to go as soon as I get past this place. And I know where the story is heading from there on out...at least, I think I do.
All I have to do is write it.
I have no idea if this thing is any good. It is too difficult to ascertain, it is impossible to rely on my perspective, and at this point I'm not especially interested in knowing the answer to that question anyway. Better to just keep writing and get it finished.
I will say this, however. Caroline loves it, the parts I've read to her. She thinks it's brilliant.
And when I'm up at night lingering over language, hearing words in my mind, searching for the right combination of sounds and syllables, the most beautiful way of saying things I hope will resonate deeply in the reader's heart...well, that is magic. That is an enchantment which could bind me forever, willingly, in the rich and mysterious, achingly lovely world of words.