It’s the calm examination of the smallest parts that gives one the ability to wildly write about the whole.
A writer must take a moment in time, and smash it to pieces small as atoms, then glue that moment back together so no one notices it was ever broken. Like a kid who’s taken his father’s watch apart just to see how it works with all its tiny wheels and gears, or whatever is in watches nowadays — that kid ought not get caught with any watch parts in his fingers. I know — there’s hell to pay if you get caught.
I’m still afraid someone will catch me doing something ridiculous like watching dust motes flicker in the light. My journal is filled with simple things like grocery lists — bread, eggs, milk, noodles. But while I’m writing those endless lists of groceries and websites I intend to check out, I still think about how dust can dance through the air on a Monday afternoon. Then when no one’s looking, I write about the thing I’ve observed. I write about the magical truth of dust, hidden within the ordinary reminders of bread and eggs and noodles.
Writing sometimes works that way for me; find something exquisite and mention how it happens while no one’s looking.