Hello! Welcome to my – occasional, probably – blog!

Today, I’m trying to manage to actually make some progress on a book or two… and my brain is creaky. My writing muscles feel weak. I’m searching a lot these days. Searching for things I’ve lost, searching for the right words, searching for something to say, here.

You know how when you’re looking for something, you find other things? I can’t even remember what I was initially searching for (told you my brain was creaky), but here’s the most interesting thing I’ve found this week – this picture of me and my very best friend of the moment. I am six. We are at Longleat Park in England.  

photo: Ruth Busch

On seeing this picture, I remember, instantly, what I felt. I remember the smells and the slight breeze and the sounds. I remember this, most: It was all I could do to not throw my arms around that long neck and hug hug hug. But:

I asked our guide, and he said no.

– NO??

– NO.

– Are you sure?

– Yep.

So, this. I had to be content with standing there – and while I was NOT content, I was still gleeful. Transported with joy at my luck.

Here it is: this weird, creaky realization that I had when I was six, and what I needed a reminder of: we can be full of joy, and still not be content. And that is okay. That is even, sometimes, preferable – contentment has rarely been known to spur us forward.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, um, everything. For me, anyway. Right now, as I struggle with my various stages of revision on several wildly divergent stories, I am uncomfortable and discontented. It’s so hard! So hard. And I love story so much – and I’m ridiculously lucky to be able to do this.

Wishing us all a bit of discontented joy today.


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