I’ve always imagined writers curled up on windowsills, wearing knotty sweaters, drinking cinnamon-orange tea, and scribbling the pearls of their existence.
I don’t do that.
I don’t even really use phrases like “the pearls of their existence.”
But I do scribble. I have little notebooks tucked here and there all over my messy office. Cheap ones with blue lines and wire-spiral spines. I’m intimidated of those exquisitely bound hardback numbers, the ones sold in bookstores on the displays next to the greeting cards.
Granted, our friends and family might be justified if they get a bit frazzled when we dash off a few notes in our journal after they’ve made a particularly astute observation, tried something new, or spilled a Cherry Coke down the front of their T-shirts.
All we can promise in return is to try to be more discreet in our scribbling.
We have given ourselves a gift. We create worlds. We invent heroes. We think really hard about what makes chocolate so satisfying and call it brainstorming.
Nothing is wasted. The worst times, the ones where you thought you just couldn’t anymore. . .those may surprise you, reward you with insights, all for seeing it through.