It’s been nearly six months since I finished my book and I haven’t really been able to write since. I’ve sat down many a time at my desk and found the tap that had flowed so gushingly last summer, blocked and barely dripping.
I’ve spent the last couple of days surrounded by other writers and I have been inspired by them and their stories.
I have felt driven to write, yet I find I cannot.
I cannot write of Holly and Michael, kindred spirits I have encountered far from home, but with whom I felt immediately at home.
I cannot write of Frank Sheehan, a man of God, whose empathy and compassion are so great that he can be evangelical about a godless book.
I cannot write of the sensation in my stomach when a stranger approaches, holding a copy of my book (my book!), asking for me to sign it. It is not pride. It is a mixture of gratitude and pure, unadulterated joy.
I cannot write of the feeling of giddiness at everything, yes everything, going well in my life for what I know is a brief moment of perfection.
But neither can I write of the niggling feeling of guilt that is bothering me because I cannot simply take the happiness, break it apart, and divide it between the people I love.
I cannot write. But, god, I want to.