Epiphany!

Now that the snow-cement has been shoveled from the driveway, ah, a day of lightness and a fridge full of leftovers: an ideal writing day. Realization: Alice Munro was so right when, several years back, she wrote in an essay that the best thing about writing is the idea--the spark, the quirk, the clang, my writer friends and I would call it--as it presents itself. So many sparks, but such hard work to shape and commit them to paper. Like visualizing a Julia Child style dinner party, then saying "Yeah, right" while telling yourself it's the thought that counts.
If only one could be happy with the thought and not put oneself through the torture of its execution, is/was the gist of Munro's complaint. Ah, let's just say we did it. Let's pretend. Pretend you said this, pretend you did that--the way we played as kids, those of us who pre-date computer screens. When the imagination ruled. When the patch of trees between two suburban houses was a forest (an enchanted one--because maybe enchantment comes from being small and closer to the ground; when you're tiny you notice all those little star flowers.) Just pretend. Doing so is magical; pretending transports us. And I notice that Munro is still giving exquisite form to her sparks, which indicates by her example that the struggle is worth it. Okay. So now I've got an imaginary florist and a patch of goutweed. What if...?