I’m writing something that sounds like it is from three hundred years ago. It gives me a lot of pleasure even though it is slow going. I feel my process shares space with what I heard attending amazing author Bernadine Evaristo’s presentation when she spoke about letting the plot manifest on its own from developing characters. Musically, I do this or that, I get an idea to try something almost within my reach but not quite. I go there and not until I arrive can I tell where to go next. So, it may be that I’m writing it or it may be it is writing itself, there’s an angle where both are true. Am I deciding what I do next each day or is life positioning me to believe I’m in charge. Is life obtaining what it wants from me (and everyone else) blindly adhering to being pulled this way or that way, as though it’s all our own idea. Who decided on this being in B flat?