But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench by the hearth, the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.
She thought to herself, "This is now."
She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.
A while back a relative told me that eventually everybody turns into a Republican--the older you get, the harder you get, the less you want to give away. Nope. I am getting softer by the day. And I like happy endings more and more. If you can write one, you are a badass. They are hard. Our assumption, I think, is that happiness is empty. Misery is real, happiness is an illusion. Life will end in pain and fear, after all--why should our novels be any different?
Fuck that. Gimme some happy. Surprise me with it. Find a way to tell me that love matters, and everything that is temporary is beautiful. Show me that now is now and it can never be a long time ago. I dare you.
