Over the past few months, I have written some of the most beautiful paragraphs I've ever managed. And yet I have not been able to sit with them, to turn them into story. These days are so dark in so many ways, my heart seems drawn to lightness. For me, magical enchantment has always been moonlit in my mind, and lately I've been needing sunlight.
And so I've been writing a romantic comedy. The people who are reading it as I go along seem to like it, and I guess I'm writing it for them as well as for my own self. Writing to bring in a little laughter. Writing for fun.
And yet I worry. Will I lose the ability to compose lyrically that I nurtured and worked on for decades? It means a lot to me, it is a matter of craft, of love. If I lost it, I would grieve. But I have always been an organic writer, working with the story given to me. And right now I've been given something wry, light, plainly languaged. It's the exact opposite of what I intended to offer the world in its darkness. I believe, as I said yesterday, that we need beauty. But maybe froth is as beautiful as the sea's substance. Maybe a laugh is an expression of love.
Speaking of moonlit enchantment, have you seen this magic?