The Little Lovely Things
Writing Starts With Living (and other things to notice)
Lately, I’ve been trying to find my way back into the rhythm of writing. I’m not just the mechanical kind, but the good stuff. The kind with heart in it. The kind that knows how to pause, how to look around.
Because that is the kind that can sweep a reader away and into the page.
I’ve been tiptoeing toward a novel draft that’s sat untouched for longer than I care to admit, telling myself that all work needs rest and maybe I do, too.
In the meantime, I’ve been paying closer attention. Letting small joys do their quiet work on me. Letting myself remember how to notice again. These are a few of those little things that have made me feel more human lately.
And a little more ready to write.
There is so much to notice, after all.
Like, the first drink of the day. Warm coffee in a mug crafted by a someone I followed on Instagram who throws pottery. I raced over a year ago to make sure that I got one during one of her mug drops. I was so excited to have got one before she sold out. Steam gathers and collides with itself in the air just above the rim by the time I carry it out to the porch. I sit there, bleary-eyed in pajama shorts, plastic rimmed glasses on my head, watching the local wildlife of ducks waddling towards the pond with their little families. There are getting to be so many of them that have migrated recently it is hard to keep track of who is who. My coffee tastes the same as I take a sip.
Letting laundry pile up and then forcing myself to do it. I carry it in one go, hoping not to drop an illusive sock on the floor. Folding clean clothes in the somewhat muggy laundry room/pantry. The gentle satisfaction of matched socks at the very end to know that I am done.
A basil plant that for a moment there, I was worried wasn’t going to survive let alone thrive on the patio in it’s little planter. I water it too much. Too little. Occasionally, I talk to it. Give it a little pep talk. Tell it that it has beautiful leaves and so much warm summer left to soak up. I water it too much again in the morning, though it doesn’t talk back to tell me so. We’re both trying our best.
The farmer’s market being back, though I haven’t managed to go yet. I am excited this year to actually make the most of the fresh produce, even though sometimes it pains me to pay six dollars for a pint of blueberries. There are fresh loaves of bread, olive oils, and sweet treats I wish I didn’t have so much self-control over not to rip into the moment I get back into the car to taste before getting home.
A slow walk after dinner when the sky is turning an orange and then pink. The air smells like grill smoke and musty water from the pond. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t as the breeze pushes us along. Sometimes we go for the mail, even though we know all there will be is ads.
Indulging in a dessert. Or two. Feeling the sweet thickness coat your tongue and your stomach ache, but not caring as you break back into it for one more bite.
Not wearing slippers as often anymore. The floor chilly, but welcome against the warm morning air.
Two slightly flimsy but beautifully delicate glasses of white wine catching the sun as they clink together and empty all too quickly.
A good book that found me at just the right time.
The morning light in the hallway when it hits the wooden floor just right. Golden and thin and unreasonably beautiful.
The knowledge that I don’t need a special occasion to notice the good. That noticing itself is the occasion.
Writing often starts with observation. With presence. With collecting the tiniest of details not because they move the plot forward, but because they remind me what it is to live in a body and love a place and want things.
Getting back into the novel has been slow, but it feels less like a chore and more like a conversation now. One I’m finally ready to rejoin.
These small joys? They’ve been a warm-up.
What are some small little lovely things you’ve been noticing lately?
A kind of tuning fork for the soul. Maybe the words that follow won’t be perfect. Maybe the plot won’t click into place right away. But I’m writing again — and that, I think, is enough.