I’m writing as much and as hard and as fast as I can, but it’s still painstaking, slow work.
I can’t help but think of how Annie Dillard described it:
At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then – and only then – it is handed to you. From the corner of your eye you see motion. Something is moving through the air and headed your way.
This feels like blessed work. Slow slow slow. But I can sense the narrative arc taking form; right now I am climbing with it.
Spare a thought for me.