The sparkling lights reminded her of the stars which, when she slept, protected her from the dark. This morning, she had no time for stars, running out the door with toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. No makeup. No bling. Almost no sandals, but she dashed back just in time. Clattering up the bus steps, she smiled at the driver and settled into a midway seat. Unusual, but not earth shattering.
She sat, arms full of the necessities of the day. In other words, nothing. These things, as all things, were nothing is the light of day. Imagined the ticking, the counting down, in rhythm with her heart. Held herself as if to protect the unborn child she would never have.
Minutes ticked. The bus grew fuller, stacked with humans like wheat stalks in the field.
Minutes. Minutes. Minutes.
All she felt was a flash of agony, a moment when the stars settled down around her, gathering her into their arms to fly away.
“Every job from the heart is, ultimately, of equal value. The nurse injects the syringe; the writer slides the pen; the farmer plows the dirt; the comedian draws the laughter. Monetary income is the perfect deceiver of a man’s true worth.”
“If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”
― Ray Bradbury
“I write because I am alone and move through the world alone. No one will know what has passed through me… I write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because I am a woman trying to stand up in my life… I write out of hurt and how to make hurt okay; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home I’ll ever have.”
― Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within