Yesterday I printed out the last bit of the story I had written. I thought I might like to review before starting the next chapter. (I decided against it. The last thing I need before the start of a chapter is a well earned shake in confidence.)
Then I spent the afternoon writing in my living room. Trying to get it right, one word and one thought at a time. Or sometimes with many words and many thoughts, all jumbled up in a violent bang.
I’m a few pages in. Learning. Worrying. Happy. Wondering. The usual start of a chapter feelings I seem to succumb to.
I stayed up late, reading Tolkien's The Return of the King by the light of my cell phone. When I was done, I placed the book on the floor beside me, on top of my printed chapter from earlier. My words, under his words.
I fell asleep thinking about how good that made me feel.