I can’t wait to go to bed so I can wake up early to write. The hour I have allotted for myself each morning goes by so fast I feel like it is not enough time. I wrestle with the page. I lament, I plot, I lose myself in the words sometimes and they flow from me like a river of blood. Sometimes they don’t come as easy; I have to draw my sword and slice each piece of prose from a woody stalk of resistance. I walk away from my writing space carrying the marks of the words on my body and in my body. I daydream, I visualize, I wonder if this scene or that chapter should be done in a different way. I try to see my story as one whole but it refuses to be what it is; it will not show itself until I have written it all, every last word.
I should be done for the morning but I linger, not wanting to close the laptop and get on with my routine. The book will haunt me today as it has done every day since the beginning. The book is in everything I do; it is in the laundry, it is in the silver rings, it is in the mailbox and the cast iron pot sizzling with bacon; it is in the coffee and the errands and the work and the nap and the pillow on which I lay my head.