This morning I woke up with a new novel in my head. Okay, not the whole novel. Just the first paragraph.
I’m in love. But then, I think I was born in love. I suspect you were, too.
The universe is a resonant place: send out a thought and, like a piano string vibrating to a struck tuning fork, it will hum it back.
This week a car crash reminded me, as I am so often reminded, of the exquisite fragility of existence — of how it hangs in every moment, suspended by a gossamer thread of unlikeliness.
My sense is that the world is having a conversation with you, right now, and always, like a ringing phone. All you just have to do is pick up.
What is the last thing you think about, just before you drift off to sleep? What is the first thing you think about, when you wake up in the morning?
What if we are surrounded by applause, but just don’t hear it? If the center of our universe, the thing we love most, has already arrived and is standing there watching us, but we just don’t know it yet?
Rejection is painful. Still, it seems to have a purpose: to make enough room to grow in.
As much as I cherish freedom (and I do), I have come to think of July Fourth as Forgiveness Day — because it always makes me think of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, their bitter feud and miraculous reconciliation.
I’ve told you before what it’s like to have a manuscript rejected by umpteen publishers and finally accepted. This time, I thought I’d bring you right into the action as it happens.