Still, spring is coming. Winter’s back is broken. We can see it by how fast the snow melts. The sky clears quickly—the long horrid overcast month of January is just a memory—and somewhere under the snow, I am sure my crocuses are getting ready to bloom.

I can sense that the revisions are going to go well, once I sit down to them. My ideas have a greater clarity, now, and I jot them down. I find I’m thinking of the manuscript at odd times, getting little colorful bits of thoughts that poke through to the surface. There’s a lightness in me, a sense of joy, though I’ve written nothing substantial as yet.

I could sit, and strain, and work, and obsess, and heave mightily with my shovel, lifting sodden heaps of prose and flinging them about. But sometimes it’s better—and certainly far easier—to let things happen in their own sweet time.

The story wants to be told. Spring wants to arrive. Both will occur on their own schedule; and when their moment comes, I’ll be a delighted participant.

In the meantime, I’m taking a break.