It’s time to finish the novel I’m writing: it’s almost done.
Working through, section by section, each afternoon>evening>night I plan the next day’s work. Each morning, early, I write what I planned in the hours before.
Last night I planned what I would write today. This morning, as I did the first-thing chores, I got it ready.
Except today, I have no power. I can’t put it there, outside me and onto the page.
I have a modest output target: a thousand words. What I have planned will be around that.
The space between the worlds I keep at my visceral centre has flatlined, leaving only something peevish and ineffectual.
I can’t even read.
I have lit the fire. The flames are lifegiving. The house is quiet. The silence is lifegiving, too.
I am hoping later on I will find that immense stand-in-the-whirlwind thingummy that brings the words.
I read, sometimes, professional writers saying that waiting for the muse is nonsense; that if you want to do this for a job, there’s only one way – begin. Actually, I’ve said it myself. But today I can’t even begin; only wait. Into the peace, if I make it broad enough, wise enough, I do believe words will come forth like woodland animals as the night falls. I must make a dusk of myself, and then the words will come out.
Ah, wait! There is a feeling in me, that today – like a subterranean stream, a current of intense yearning, I need the company of someone who understands me. You know, with writing fiction, that can be a good place to begin. I will start there. A thousand words for the hunger inside me that all of humanity shares too.