Sometimes, you won’t have a lot of time. The words will just have to show up ready, preformed. Packaged. That’s how it is in life. It doesn’t always send you what would thrill you. I’ve had it happen enough times now though–you don’t always realize what’s going to make you happiest. And it isn’t only writing that’s like that. Charlotte
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It’s still early. That’s true. A true sentence. Regardless of how little there is left of the day, it’s still early. There’s time yet to write the daily clutch of words. Despite the fact that my brain is doing its usual whirring with all the things to get done, the manuscripts needing edits, consult calls to make, talks and articles
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It’s a crazy dark day, the kind we get in Portland in the winter where you have to keep the lights on in the house all day because of the thick gray haze blanketing the world. It can get into your skin. So on this rainy day, I’m pondering about musings. And about how most things in life come down
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Is longing enough? You don’t often believe so. And maybe too unbelieving, too afraid to admit, you strive to feel something you don’t, something real again of this living water, and a love for his life. Something that may not have happened exactly, though you do remember and it persists. Its truth seems to have expanded the bowl, beyond your
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“If I dismiss the ordinary — waiting for the special, the extreme, the extraordinary to happen — I may just miss my life.…To allow ourselves to spend afternoons watching dancers rehearse, or sit on a stone wall and watch the sunset, or spend the whole weekend rereading Chekhov stories—to know that we are doing what we’re supposed to be doing
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