True to my word, I’ve been cutting back on internet lately. This means that I don’t leave Gmail open all day, just waiting for new messages, and that I’m not surfing Wikipedia or clicking every link in my friends’ Twitter streams looking for distractions. No Roomba-riding kitties on YouTube, no Bones reruns on Hulu.
I am, however, still making time for things that are worth reading. For example…
Friend and writer John sent me this mind-blowing (and very short) story, “The Egg” by Andy Weir:
“Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.”
Five months and seventeen days after sending the manuscript, Dutton called and offered to publish Looking for Alaska. And literally, my first thought was, “Oh. My. God. I’m going to be a 0 dash 525 dash!”
Over three decades have passed since I wrote my first story about the scuba diver, but when it comes to writing, I have finally returned to a state of childlike wonder and excitement. I no longer worry much about what others might think or what they might approve of, and I try not to think about what inner demons or faults I might be revealing. Instead, I focus on what plots make my heart sing, what narrative flow jazzes me up, and what characters wake me in the middle of the night, calling out that they need me to bring them to life.
I am an author.
I am a writer, a scribbler, and a thinker.
I am alive.