I was too hungover to do any serious writing over the weekend. Most of Saturday, I was in a thick, mental fog. My mind was ponderous, and I had to think hard to tell my left foot apart from my right. I managed to go to the local farmers market, had dinner out, and in between managed to invest in some cryptocurrencies (a story for another time).
Yesterday I was a bit better, but lazy and tired nonetheless. I futzed around most of the day, disinclined to put my brain to any practical use, switching between the tennis and the cricket. Neither gave much joy.
The thing is that late in the day a story blossomed in me. It’s how it works sometimes. The land seems barren and infertile. Bushfires have ravaged the terrain. Everything is blackened. And yet a bud appears amid the devastation. It’s a wasteland, but here is life. As you watch, it blossoms. It inspires fascination, and here I will shift the metaphor into reality. Here is something growing inside of you. How does that happen? Where do these stories come from? And yet even as you wonder more of the story comes together. If it’s right – and it isn’t always – there’s a kind of truth to the process. The story coheres bit by bit, and at the same time, you know how it should be written.
This is a magical, wonderful thing. I feel so thankful, and when it happens, I know this is what I’m meant to be, this is my time for that.
And maybe when it is done people will acclaim it and even then it seems a strange thing, something you have created that yet you are not possessive of – because the process by which it came into being feels outside of you, an act of magical grace. It is not something to be explained, just accepted.
I am so lucky – I think this is a good one.