Balancing Act

The day seems perilously balanced upon itself—the sky drenched with the color of rain, the earth dry. I have been reading and reviewing extraordinary books these past few days, dwelling on the decisions other authors make about form, language, indirection, instruction. I've been meeting client deadlines and folding the laundry, dressing the turkey and peeling the carrots, and all the while I've been thinking about NOTHING BUT GHOSTS, wondering how to re-enter a book I had imagined was finished.

I've been thinking about how you keep a book whole, even as you pry it apart. How you maintain its organic urgency, even as you address a broken link in plot. I've been recreating the mood that generated the story in the first place, retracing a particular terrain. I've been afraid to start again. I've backed away. I've circled.

The writing life.