This week, despite tolerable productivity, hasn't been the most motivating for me.
I've invested a lot of hours in writing this novel, staying up late, forgetting to eat lunch till two in the afternoon, pouring myself into the plot and phrasing--and I've got a hundred pages of another work waiting for the moment my writing focuses are free--and this week it has all felt like a waste of time and energy. "Making up lies," as worthy old women might have said in another time. And for what? Who knows if these books will ever contribute a dime to this household? Who knows if they will interest anyone enough to persevere through to the end? (I like my little tales, but I created the people therein and I love them dearly.)
Here's why I keep going:
" 'Why do innocents suffer?' can't be answered in any interesting way with syllogisms. The syllogisms may be necessary, to prevent internal contradictions. But only paintings and novels and movies, the lives of the saints, and above all the Passion narrative, can truly bring us to accept the possibility that God is merciful, that there is a Heaven where even our wounds -- even our children's wounds -- are like the glorified Wounds of Christ."Thank you, Eve Tushnet. I needed to hear that. Oh, and I loved the rest of the article too.