A story's been in my head for month and I can't say what has kept me from writing it. Distance from mind's eye to screen seems impossibly far sometimes. But now that I've started, I'm reasonably happy about it, meaning happy enough to look forward to doing more with it tomorrow. Need to start a sentence and not finish it -- leaving myself a sort of trail to follow on my way back into the work. Tomorrow.
Later: Took a walk, came home, wrote another page. Yay.
On a wholly unrelated note: a commenter on Betsy Lerner's blog notes that writing letters is, among other things, an identity-building activity: "My brother, in and out of prison, never responds to family letters, but, I can vividly imagine him writing someone he doesn’t know, has never known, in the hopes of becoming someone else in the exchange."
I like this idea.
