I just read over the new opening to my novel. I’d last touched it at the end of April.

As I read, I felt questioning at first, doubts at the new direction, a great many, flooding through my head. Then I turned the page. I kept reading. I felt a prickling down my back, the shiver of something not yet nameable. I forgot the doubts. I read on. I remembered this line, that line, another. I came to lines I didn’t remember at all, not a word, as if someone had slipped into this file during the month of May and wrote them for me. But it was there, the new possible shape for my story, a door I’ve drawn carefully for myself and left open.

When I reached the end of my new pages, nine in total, I looked up, and out loud I said, Oh.

It was a good oh, a pleasant breath of an oh. These are nine pages I might not throw away.

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