When we are deep in the bowels of working on a writing project, does the world really offer up magic to us with astonishing frequency or are we just paying attention? For instance, this week I stumbled upon a William Stafford poem "Ask Me" that includes in four lines the distilled essence of a central theme I've taken 500 pages and 10 years to get right in a novel. Would I have understood those lines without the years and pages? Would I have seen them at all?
I'm honestly not sure. The world does seem full with magic at times. I do know I must be awake to see it.