I don’t know how to explain what’s changed; I’m not even sure I should admit to it. All I can say, because I am superstitious with detail, is that I am writing again. Writing-writing. There is a novel that has a hold of me—that’s all I’ll say in terms of specifics. I’ll talk more about the novel itself later, once I’m sure.
But have you noticed how different the world looks when you have a novel to write? When it is a novel for you and you only, and you are not under deadline? When you are not ghostwriting? When you are not a ghost?
Time seems less pressing, it seems—while writing—that I have all the time in the world. Even when not writing, my day isn’t so bad, because I have something to look forward to outside of it. Even when I got a rejection for something unrelated, like yesterday, via voicemail, it didn’t even matter, it barely hurt.
When something is right, you just know it’s right. No one can tell you different, not even the loud insecure half of yourself that continually likes to tell you you’re wrong. Yes, it’s true, oddly enough my loud and insecure self has been quiet for days, observing me return to writing without comment. I am not sure if she approves, but she is not yet trying to ruin this. I hope she approves. I hope she’s watching me type this with a nod of her head, smiling.
All right, it’s enough to just say I’m writing again. Writing-writing. Please let this long year of doubt now be over.