A bit of flesh in the inkpot

Writing by candlelight during a power outage.

One ought only to write when one leaves a piece of one's own flesh in the inkpot, each time one dips one's pen.  ~Leo Tolstoy

I have a lot of writing going on these days:  talks, a series on praying with the desert fathers and mothers, a book review, short essays for a book project, a scriptural reflection.  I have pieces in draft, proofs, edited pieces, pieces still hatching.  

It's also been an intense couple of weeks at work.  This morning I didn't actually make it to my office until 10, my first meeting of the day was on another campus.  I plopped my bag on the floor, dumped an armful of papers on my desk --- and that was it until 5 pm, when I picked up the papers and my bag and left.  I never actually sat down at my desk.

I had a good day writing yesterday, but it was almost physically painful to set aside the work at the end of the day, knowing I wouldn't be able to return to it today.  I definitely left a piece of flesh in the inkpot.  I can see the shape this piece is going to take now, and I was finding such pleasure in fitting the pieces together, like a puzzle.  And I long for the silence that writing wraps around me, a deep well into which I can settle.