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That Which Soothes When All Begins to Crumble

Though I welcomed—after our terror subsided—the stillness of our shelter-in-place life, we who had been circling and circling for years, the last few days I have felt as if I might crumble, my “dust to dust” having become friable, my feet of clay exposed, a descending that was not helped when the priest who understood me and yet encouraged my own peculiar way of experiencing God, so different from his own, died.

But I perked up like a newly-buried plant after a forgiving rain when I realized I could print off my manuscript and comb through it by hand with a pencil and sharpener and a pink eraser to create something that sings to me even if others cannot hear my voice.

I may not have been born a writer, but I am one now.

born a writer, COVID-19 depression, COVID-19 novel, Writing during COVID-19, writing inspiration

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