I finished the end of MotorHome Zen today. A draft, mind you, but a vibrant culmination of energies. Enough to terrify and exhilarate me. For that's what writing does, and if one can not walk those serrated edges one isn't cut out for life with the written word. It happens when I sit in the morning, pen in hand, and wonder where the ink will lead. Or if. It happens when I send my work to readers and wonder if the text will land with a thud or alight simple upon their souls. It happens in the face of wait from agents and publishers, when I receive gushing glowing letters from fans, or when rejection swamps my door.
I've been especially anxious this week because I knew the end of the book was near. Another ending, as if losing a lover wasn't enough. I also said goodbye to dear friends who stopped by to visit from Vancouver Island and five more buddies cranked their ignitions and headed back to the States. It felt like piling on as I mourned the loss of two deep loves, one in real time, one through the written pages of my book.
This morning I walked the beach and pleaded with the waves to salve my heartache. No beach combing for me. Couldn't make out shells through tears. My walk was almost complete when I stopped to stare out to sea. That's when my eyes turned down and I spotted the largest jingle shell I have ever seen, as big as the palm of my hand. I bent down and pulled it from it's sandy grave to find it was shaped like a heart!
My heart would be whole again, said my valentine from the sea.