It is, outside, finally light. Little tufty clouds speed by in the high winds. The sky is a pale blue like the sky over a spring north sea – though that of course is a few miles away, in the opposite direction from that which my window is facing.
So now it’s a better time to post than yesterday. Almost as if I can feel the hemisphere turning towards the sun, the days lengthening, though how could I feel a day or two’s difference? Still, it seems to me like I can. My fingers respond more smoothly. Words like faint clouds, banding, breaking, but flowing fast.
In the darkness of yesterday, I still managed to begin the rewrite of the beginning of the new novel project. And I think it’s important to see when we have achieved something right down at the bottom of a pit made of days – tapping out 600 words or so is a feat, I’m telling myself, when I could barely manage to stay awake the whole day. That’s how we stay writers, when we write through the hard days. It doesn’t mean that we always must succeed in writing something brilliant, affecting, clever, devastating. Just to seed a few words when it hurts even to face the idea. Just to grasp the faith that we have it in us to try. One way how to be human is to make art when everything – including us – is against us.
Now it’s Christmas Eve and bright. And I will get to writing in a little bit, hopefully driven. Tomorrow will come in gold and green and red and singing. I hope for those of you who celebrate it. I hope for those of you who don’t, it will be a good writing day, good reading day. Good for baking, woodwork, threading beads – whatever art you make. And if it’s not a good day, let it be a day of your endurance. With mulled wine at the end of it, if that is what you’d like.