we writers are not down in the earth,

in the hurt of a mine. We are not shucking for treasures in the sea. We are not carrying boulders up the prickly side of Everest. We are not curing a broken vessel in a brain.

Still, writing is what we do, and the work becomes physical at times, wearying in its own strange ways. We sit down to it, and it runs away. We return to the words we thought we'd polished, and we delete delete delete, start a new page.

We despair. Oh. Have I. Ever.

But today I let my thoughts descend to the underworld of Santa Croce Cathedral in Florence, Italy, and found the piece of the story I'd been missing all along—the piece that at long last surprises and exhilarates me.

I can't write unless the work somehow surprises and therefore enlivens me.

I sit with a straighter back.

I reach for a cup of tea.