remembering why I write in the first place

There is hardly time, hardly ever time, but yesterday morning, early, I wrote three paragraphs of a novel.

Three paragraphs.

Closed my eyes to the terrible news of the world, tunneled in, aligned myself with characters who have lived with me for well over a year and who suffer from an extreme deficit of attention.

The headache I'd been having lifted. The calm that had eluded me set in. I wasn't running, racing, rushing, pressing, jammed against a deadline (several deadlines), and the words walked in.

Three paragraphs.

Enough to remember that it's possible. Enough to look back on as the rush, again, begins. Enough to remember why I write in the first place—not to be famous (I'm not), not to be rich (what does one do with richness?), not for the sake of power (I'll choose family and friendship over power any day). But to be at peace. To stop and listen. To imagine a better world than the one the news reports. To live there, only briefly. To escape inside of me.