And so it began.   I woke up today, poured my coffee, fed my baby, and wrote, changed a diaper, and wrote, calmed my baby, re-heated my coffee, and wrote.

It felt good.  Really good.

And then Lil Mil started crying.  And then there were errands to run, and a house to clean, and dinner to make.   A little girl to smother with kisses.

I didn’t accomplish as much as I wanted to.  For the book, I mean.  I wrote for two hours.  I stuck to my plan.  Followed my rules.  But I didn’t accomplish as much as I wanted to.

And yet.

I started.  I began.  I set off on this journey, which means I’m now on my way.

For today, that’s enough.

Normally, it wouldn’t be.  Normally, I’m only satisfied when I exceed my expectations.  But this morning, as I was gearing up for my big Day One, someone wiser (and infinitely more eloquent) than I am reminded me that I can’t force this.  “Birthing a book, like birthing a baby, is a messy and magical endeavor,” she said.  She would know, having birthed both.  Two happy and healthy and absolutely adorable little girls and one soon-to-be-released (by HarperCollins/Avon no less!) novel.

A messy and magical endeavor.

I want to experience the magic.  Relish the mess.  I don’t want my expectations or my schedule or my game plan to smother the passion behind this project.  I’m doing this because there’s a story I want to tell.  A particular story that presently resides somewhere between my imagination and the page.  A messy and magical story about fate and faith and the defining power of our choices.  A story that’s worth the toil of its telling.

And so.

Today was enough for today.

** For the next couple weeks I’m going to repost some of my posts from last January, when this detour officially began.  Partly because I’m feeling nostalgic.  Mostly because I’m trying to figure out what I want to do next.  Oh, and about that TV show — more soon, I promise.