Monday, July 4, 2011
Then I remember what it is to take it slow. To back it up. To make the story, line by line. To allow an afternoon to pass without writing a single word. It's all right, I remember, to sit here dreaming. It's fine—in fact, it is essential—to write what I won't use to discover what I will.
Will the game of pitch and toss stay?
I don't know.
Will Molly return the penny?
It might not matter, after all.
Except that it all matters. It's process.