Friday, January 11, 2013
Another Book I'll Never Write
But in my quest to fulfill that rather basic function, the morning remains the morning.
The sky is shot through with color, or grey with rain. The air is bright and sharp and crisp in winter, or cool and moist in the summer. And every day is different, even though the arc of my walk is almost always one of two routes. It's a potent time, each deep breath of cool air mixing with the taste of coffee in my mouth, the brisk pace of my walk stirring my dream-rested mind.
Almost every day, something pops into my head. It's the reason I'm sure to walk the dog early on Sunday morning, for example. When I return, that paragraph that just wasn't working or that concept in the second-to-final draft of the sermon that seemed unformed suddenly becomes clear.
The ideas come every day. And as I walked the other morning, I suddenly found myself thinking...gosh...what if I wrote these thoughts down every day for a hundred days? What if I wove every one of these mornings into a series of three-to-five hundred-word reflections about dogs and faith, about creativity and morning light? People love those books of daily reflection, don't they? And it almost writes itself.
But then my muse giggled to herself, and struggling to stifle a laugh, whispered the inescapable title of the book-thought into my ear: "A Hundred Bags of Crap."
Hmm. Not quite sure that'd ever find it's way to any Christian bookstore shelves.