I have the pleasure and the privilege to write what I love. At moments, this strikes me and the full magnitude of it is...unbelievable. It steals your breath and makes your heart feel fuller and yet unreal. How is it possible? I'm lucky enough to have moments I still yearn for, moments I'm stretching toward like a plant reaches for the sun (though, hopefully I'm more well taken care of than those plants I'm holding captive in the window) and I hope that I keep on stretching, until my book stands with those authors that I so love and admire.
It's going to be hard to pace myself and enjoy the journey, but some things can't be rushed.
And really, why would I want them to be?