At my new writing desk, in its new room, I sit one window east of where my old desk used to be. I’m closer to the sill and the glass is cold. Now that the leaves are falling away, I begin to see a small piece of Manhattan’s skyline. From this window, the Freedom Tower is just out of view. But I know it’s there because one window west, at my old writing space, it is.
Tonight, I relish in the new view, in it’s new angle. I am an impatient writer. I don’t always like the pace I write at, which is to say, slow. In the month of November, everyone ticking away words, I feel especially less-than. But in the past few weeks, nothing worked, and I had to stop myself from soldiering on the cluttered path. I became slower than a slow writer. I became a writer who didn’t write at all.
And it was exactly what I needed.
I cleared away some of the doubt and smudge and, this week, I returned to a story I had been working on.
I had crowded a character with too many competing plots and I thought I was the grand puppet master. I thought I could bend anyone and anything to my will. I thought, I was the storyteller. Ha. Ha.
Once I let all this go, I realized that she, alone, knows her story. I stand up to the microphone, make my introduction, swing my arm out in grand gesture, and say, take it away.
Holy smokes. She has a lot to say.
I’m finally listening. I’m finally seeing what’s been there all along.