I want to take a detour with the idea of That Rare Space where the writing happens not just as ideas and notes but the word by word weaving of sentences and ideas into that one braid that will make the stay of the sail. It is continuous, unfolding like the unfolding of flowers, spontaneously, organically, almost mindlessly.

Yes, it is rare. It is not something I can struggle to attain to. No amount of willing and forcing can control and harness it. It is free, like Pegasus, the winged horse that goes where he wills. I cannot command it. I have to recognize that I am no more than a servant. I serve it, not it me. I am its willing slave because I adore It and because without It my life would not be worth living even if I became the Emperor of the Universe.

My status is the status of an instrument which, unless it be touched, is mute of music.

It is not just the space in which writing happens: it is the moment when no matter how ‘menial’ your task, you become aware of the miracle of yourself, doing this or that, utterly present, your heart and head where it needs to be, here, now, the happening place, all the company you need, all the success, just you, and the broom.

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