I noticed a long time ago that the Universe rewards belief systems. It doesn't really matter what you believe - it'll be there and waiting for you if you go and look for it. Decide the universe is, say, run by secret enormous teddy bears, and I can guarantee you'll immediately start running across evidence that this is true.
So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding.
Potentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality waiting to be shaped.
When the first living thing existed, I was there waiting. When the last living thing dies, my job will be finished. I'll put the chairs on the tables, turn out the lights and lock the universe behind me when I leave.
But standing in that hallway, it was all coming back to me. Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.
Write. Finish things. Get them published. Write something else while you're waiting for someone to publish the first thing.
You can buy a book new, buy it in hardback or wait for the paperback, find it used or as a collectible. I don't mind. What I care about most is that people are reading.
Anything that keeps you happy and writing is part of my writing ritual: I like music, so I tend to have it playing in the background. But if I'm interested, I can write in an airport waiting areas.
Sometimes I think that ideas float through the atmosphere like huge squishy pumpkins, waiting for heads to drop on.
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