Tuesday, January 8, 2013
I have learned to live with stepping away from the writing for awhile. I have come to believe that it makes the work better. At the very least, not being able to write for such a long stretch renders me incredibly grateful when the writing window opens. Perhaps because I must fight so hard for personal time, writing never feels like work to me. It always feels like privilege.
Every day now, on the way to my client work, I will walk past this windowsill. To the left, the leather book I made in a workshop in Florence; the leather master is a character in my book. Just past the Santa Fe skull, the gift my son gave me for Christmas—his favorite view of Philadelphia, our shared city, set down by a local artist. Beside that, a glorious etching bought for me by my friend Alyson Hagy. Complexity, she says, she favors, she sees. Which is never the same as complication.
I will not be writing, not for a while now. But I will remember, thanks to these artifacts, this art, these people in my life, that writing is still possible. That it waits for me.