This is where I write, in the back sun room of my house, a room with three walls of solid windows overlooking my yard and garden. My laptop sits on a reclaimed-wood table I had made for me, having fallen in love with it at a local flower shop and cajoled the owner into giving me the name of the man who had made it. And this is the way it all looks to me when I sit down to begin, when the picture of what I need to say remains out of focus, out of my reach.
Today I struggled. Today’s particular form of struggle involved looking up an ungodly number of words in the thesaurus. Really. Ungodly number.
I finished the chapter I have been working on. !! And whereas I wrote more than a paragraph, it is one paragraph that will allow me to lay my head on my pillow tonight feeling like I have done something.
“As if it is the most natural thing in the world, as if she has done this a million times, Madeline reaches for the breast of a fifteen-year-old girl. She squeezes the nipple, and she directs the breast from a position slightly above Dustin’s head into his eager, expectant mouth. For a few fleeting seconds, Madeline feels she has been given a magnificent gift. In a featureless hospital room, with an exhausted adolescent mother whose breast she holds in her own hand, she has been granted a moment of profound grace.”
Now the scene looks like this.