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This Place

November 15, 2010
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You know, I just thought of something. All the time I’m thinking about wanting to be a real writer. But as I sit here sipping my Winter Warmer Ale in my quiet, dimly lit old farmhouse with perfect, specifically-chosen music streaming through the headphones and I’m working on the new fiction, it hits me…this is why I write. This moment here. Not for the glory of being a “writer” someday in the foggy future or for the fame and money I’ll never see, but because this right here – the writing, the words, the rhythm, the pace, the drink, the light, the darkness, the peace…it’s enough.

If you are a writer like me, a struggling writer with a busy life outside of writing, out in the real world, you might know what that means. To finally be enough. For I am content. For the moment. For now. For this. But not for tomorrow. And so I will be back at it then. For now, though this is enough. This moment. This is the reason I write, the reason I have always written, which is to find that elusive space in my life.

And suddenly here I am now. Just like I always remembered it. And I love this place. For now.

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