the glory we give to ourselves

The downpour here has lifted. There's a buzz of gold coming in from the north.  I've been writing, happy, all morning.  Give me two hours of uninterrupted time—three if you want to slide me right on up the heavenly stairs.  Give me time, and my mood is glory.

We talk too much, out here, about the business of being published.  About the size of contracts, the size of tours, the ways in which houses show their faith.  It's easy to get caught up in the details, too easy to feel slighted or less than.  Hey, I've been there.  I know.

But if we let all that get to us we let the wrong forces win.  We forget the radiance that comes from the writing itself.  From putting the words down, one after the other.  From watching as a story reveals itself.  One feels the mind spiraling out, Milky Way style.  One feels the fresh spray of paint.

That's being alive.  That's the good that we give to ourselves.