(on slowness) Many people believe we are living in one of the most stressful times in history. The stress isn’t about being eaten by dinosaurs or how we’ll escape the marauding Vikings. People are now eaten by schedules and crushing poverty. A friend of mine said recently the modern family is living life at an abusive pace. And writing takes
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I wake up and I’m already moving too fast. Trying to cut corners and save time. Multitasking in the bathroom is a bit obsessive, but somehow I don’t think I’m alone in this. When did this fast-motion-fest become my default setting? Why do we search for shortcuts? What are we after more of? Time, obviously. And for me, it’s writing
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“I will sit still and let the marvels and the adventures settle on me like flies. There are plenty of them, I assure you. The world will never starve for want of wonders, but only for want of wonder.” –G.K. Chesterton (on my small, slow faith…) Sometimes I feel like a wisp of wind next to the overwhelming breeze of others’ faith.
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“I must write on the novel again. It’s got to be finished. All it needs is my attention.” And that was as far as I got last night before falling asleep. And in listening to That Distant Land on my run this morning, Wendell Berry’s collection of Port William short stories about the colorful folks in a small Kentucky community around the
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“This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple, “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and lightest hour must
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