Tuesday, August 12, 2014


I spent a good chunk of today sorting and organising.  Going through the clutter, I found a lot of trash--mismatched knitting needles, broken rubber bands, scraps--and one or two treasures.  Digging in one bag, I came up with a little packet of paper all folded up.  It was something I'd written more than ten years ago, the first chapter of a novel.  I remember writing it when Mary was a tiny baby.  Looking back, I can see that I was unsettled.  I was twenty-one.  About two years in, marriage still felt new.  I had just finished my degree.  And suddenly, I was someone's mama.  There was a lot of adjusting.  Everything was unfamiliar.  I was unsure.  Reading today, what I wrote then, I felt impressed by the bravery of my effort.  In a bewildering season, it took a lot of courage to believe in my ability, or perhaps my right, to put together ten (clumsy) pages.  It could be time for chapter two.

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