You don’t put things down on paper to produce masterpieces, but to gain some clarity.
I spend the day in the woman cave tapping out words, writing and rewriting. Also tweaking the format of my manuscript, because doing so serves as an effective diversion when the writing gets a little too close to the core.
The comfort of good headers and footers, consistent spacing between sections, and no squiggly lines indicating spelling or grammatical mistakes, balances the stark vulnerability of surfacing fears and crafting them into sentences.
The crunch when I bite into a carrot, and the furious chewing afterward, is manifestation of the effort that rumination, and transferring of thought through fingers onto the keyboard, takes.
I come out from the cave when Maya tells me it’s time for her dinner, spent, intentionally setting the work aside for the day before Gerry gets home. Reentry into life is a mucky business, best done alone and in silence.
He comes home with a spark in his eye and an idea. We sit in the hot tub and consider it—well, one of us considers it, for the other it’s mostly a done deal.
And dinner, and a favourite television program, and phone conversations, and the day ends gently with books and a prayer.