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.