Just a quick post today as I'm busy ahead of a well-deserved break, but I wanted to share something I read recently by David Richo:
My greatest joy is in the realization that I can still love. That capacity remained intact despite all the blows.
That the love made it through means that I made it through.
That the love made it through means that I made it through.
This is very meaningful for me right now, as I swamp-trudge my way through grief due to a (hopefully temporary) separation from someone I dearly love.
But this quote also has some resonance for me in terms of writing-that no matter what other life forces intrude, my love for that remains. No matter what else breaks my heart, the excitement about finishing my next novel and then the next is still there.
In fact, it's comforting to know, that despite the disappointments, the dreadful doubts, the isolation, lack of money or time or whatever hurts have hit my creative life over the years, the love for language, for strange imaginary people who move in with me and persuade me to tell their stories is resilient.
Love for others, for self, for our work may be difficult, even sometimes apparently impossible, but without it, the artistic self shrivels. Love is a sign of survival, as Richo says, but it is also the fuel of all that is great in life. It may seem easier sometimes to cool to all that's painful by throwing the water of cynicism over it, but then we also lose the messy warmth which makes being the world and passionate writing possible.
Because I have so much love inside me right now that it makes me cry on the stairs, because I love my work enough to worry about its future or whether I've chosen the accurate image to describe a character's hair, I know I made it through my past and will make it through this shadowy, frightening time too. And so will you, whatever goes on. As Richo also says in his book, How to Love as an Adult:"Let the chips fall where they may." Love never fails.
But this quote also has some resonance for me in terms of writing-that no matter what other life forces intrude, my love for that remains. No matter what else breaks my heart, the excitement about finishing my next novel and then the next is still there.
In fact, it's comforting to know, that despite the disappointments, the dreadful doubts, the isolation, lack of money or time or whatever hurts have hit my creative life over the years, the love for language, for strange imaginary people who move in with me and persuade me to tell their stories is resilient.
Love for others, for self, for our work may be difficult, even sometimes apparently impossible, but without it, the artistic self shrivels. Love is a sign of survival, as Richo says, but it is also the fuel of all that is great in life. It may seem easier sometimes to cool to all that's painful by throwing the water of cynicism over it, but then we also lose the messy warmth which makes being the world and passionate writing possible.
Because I have so much love inside me right now that it makes me cry on the stairs, because I love my work enough to worry about its future or whether I've chosen the accurate image to describe a character's hair, I know I made it through my past and will make it through this shadowy, frightening time too. And so will you, whatever goes on. As Richo also says in his book, How to Love as an Adult:"Let the chips fall where they may." Love never fails.
