“It’s all so meaningless, we may as well be extraordinary.” – Francis Bacon
Yesterday, I finished my first draft of my first novel.
Suddenly, I was done. Just like that.
I stared at the cursor blinking at me. I cried.
Called the man I love, who bellowed in cheer while he was in the middle of a meeting at work. I belly-laughed.
Laced up my running shoes and went out into the wind and half-light.
Made a bee-line for the heart-shaped lake I’ve gone to for years to trace its edges with my footsteps and the edges of my story with my mind.
Watched the sun set.
Thought of you, my tribe, how you’ve cheered me on with your bright, relentlessly beautiful pom poms. Gratitude flood.
Did the only self-respecting Next Thing To Be Done: went to the pub. Serendipitously found fallen flowers on the footpath, which I pocketed to press in my notebook later.
Stared at a sign in the pub window I’ve seen countless times and never really seen before. We made it. Turn nothing into something.
Ordered a beer like I was in the hot heart of my homeland. Raised my bottle to that past life.
More crying. In public this time.
Blubbed to a complete stranger at table next to me. Offended all manner of English social sensibilities.
Crying turned into laugh-crying. Glamour at an all time high.
Waited for my fella to walk through the door.
Held myself in that moment so I might keep it forever, like a pressed flower.
Thank you for sharing this with me. I’m so grateful.
“Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred. What we make matters enormously, and it doesn’t matter at all. We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits. We are terrified, and we are brave. Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege. Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us.” – Elizabeth Gilbert