On the way to begin writing the novel for the first time, I waved at a neighbor standing in front of his house. He hopped in the car and I gave him a ride downtown.
The conversation I had with him confirmed my suspicions about the conclusion of the novel I was about to begin. It had to do with miracles, and mitochondria, and Christmas stockings, and the poor standing of crows in the order of the universe.
Today as I ordered at the drive-thru coffee stand, I glanced down at the front page of the local paper. Novel connection on the front page.
Today as I glanced through the week's newspapers before recycling them, one article stood out. Novel connection.
The other day, browsing in a used bookstore during some brief and unexpected free time, I found two books that could help with the novel.
Maybe it's just my imagination. In fact, that's exactly it--my imagination. Not "just". It is thrilling to be inside this idea, and to see connections to it on the outside, like little encouragements, like seeds for the tiny bird of my writer's confidence. I gather these seeds so that when (not if) I get stuck, and the bird stops singing, I can use these seeds to perk it up.
That bird is cousin to another--Emily Dickinson's.
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul –
and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."