Had the sort of day I could relive again. Woke up, made breakfast, did the decaf coffee thing, and wrote. And then suddenly it was lunch, so I ate, wrote for a few more hours, and napped with Oedipus. Grabbed dinner to go and edited the day’s pages. Now I crave beer.

Today marks two weeks on a project I restarted with a much hesitation. Curiously, it was much easier to come back–once committing, anyway–than it was setting the manuscript down nearly a year ago. To say that the first day was like never ditching the story would be a lie. Still, I have been amazed how quickly my feel for what’s on those pages returned. When it really hums I hear the line as I’m typing it. More importantly, the holds keeps appearing when I reach for them, and they reveal themselves at moments when I’m not thinking about writing hooks to launch the characters forward. In fact when I start considering what the door into the next scene might look like, they shut, and the scene breaks down.

This type of experience is very new to me. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a ride like this in January, so I resisted climbing on board. Or maybe I just fought what stared me in the face because I couldn’t recognize it. I lacked the necessary trust in the process and turned the very momentum working with it could generate for me against myself.

Even the usual fears are different. A typical concern: whether the story has merit and is worth my time. Now I’m starting to think the reason this one didn’t let me go is because there’s something driving the scenes that’s bigger than my insecurities.

Which is even scarier.