Writing

I wish I were always the kind of writer who writes every day. Sometimes I am (though the lie of that statement is contained in that one word "sometimes") and I have to admit that those are the times when I am...happiest? No, most content or most at ease with myself.

Between teaching and freelance and life, there was no writing at all this week. Which is why I am so pleased to have spent the first part of today absorbed in my own work, even though my toes have been cold because I neglected to put on socks (so eager to get to my desk!) and I kept thinking, "There are socks, warm, cozy, in the very next room." But I didn't go get them.

I'm inching toward what I believe is a complete first draft, filling in gaps, realizing that some things I've left out need to be put in. I'm not fooled into thinking this thing is "done"—I know myself well enough to understand it will never be done, really. Yet the idea of having made something whole out of nothing but air and memory and words and (oh yes) tears is satisfying and I can't wait to have done just that.

For now, though, I'm teaching and freelancing and life is happening. And I am trusting that this whole will be done and done soon.