The Coincidences of Miracles

Finished my third short story today—at least the official first draft. The story is entitled, After the Rain, and as I was finishing up the final scenes of the story, I was amazed by the fact that it has been raining since early this morning. I’m at the computer, looking out the window; the tree is swaying back and forth; the raindrops are hitting the terrace; the whole room is dim, so I have to turn on the floor lamp when normally daylight will do; Holly, my husband’s fourteen-year-old cat, is sleeping on the cotton throw on the bench—meanwhile, I’m writing a scene in which rain is the backdrop to the story. God, you’re incredible.

The hardest part is churning out the story—proceeding to the next scene when you’re not entirely satisfied with the quality of the writing of the previous scenes. Move on. Don’t stop. Move on. Don’t stop. Finish the story first before you become the critic of your own work—as writers have advised.

The less agonizing part is the editing. At least, with a foggy formation of a being, you can now begin to mold. The story has presented itself. Now which parts of it have meaning? Which parts of it do you want to have resonated? Why did you have this idea for the story in the first place? Questions that you didn’t know you were asking while writing the story now have to be answered.

I’ve been sitting at this desk since nine this morning: maybe the rain kept me disciplined. There's no desire to be outside when the sun is hiding.

Yesterday, on a Sunday afternoon, my husband and I are slumped on the couch, and he turns to me and says, “I’m tired, you wanna’ take a nap with me?” I shake my head and smile at him. “You know I don’t take naps.” And he says, “What is it like to be you? To always feel like you have to be productive?” And while he sleeps, I begin editing the first part of the story.

God plants the vision. And the child does the work. And as the child is working away—God decides to send the rain.