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You have no idea it’s going to be a book.

You have no idea it’s going to be a book. You’re up at two am, burning with the need to write about the house, about what is happening to you since you even saw the place. You can’t even try and sleep. You don’t want to get up and write. It’s cold. There’s no heat in the house. It’s a treacherously long walk to go from bed to the desk—about three feet. You toss and turn. An hour later you give up. Wrapping yourself in coat and blanket, you sit down and start to write to someone, a woman, a person who you will probably never meet, who is going to need to hear what you have to say—about going for your dream house, about walking past all those dissenting voices swearing you can’t do it, don’t deserve it and who do you think you are? You start writing and the pen takes over and what is happening, anyway? An hour later you drift back into bed but it feels like it been only ten minutes. You fall asleep and wake up hours later with no memory of what happened at two am when the world was dark and someone else took over your pen.

photo credit: johnnyolsen.com