Last night as I was playing around with a story, I realized: now I’m going to begin noticing every piece of metal work and glass work and craft in general and have this weirdly heightened interest in all things.
Actually, this is one of the addictive things about story writing. It pulls the blinders of familiar, taking-what’s-normal-for-granted off of my eyes for a time at least and lets me be enchanted all over again by the glory inherent in reality, the glory that is so pervasive and bright that I forget and walk through life with my eyes squinched mostly closed.
It makes me think of of G.K. Chesterton's words:
Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, 'Do it again' to the sun; and every evening, 'Do it again' to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.