What this did to my writing schedule for the day is pitiful. What it did for my desire to write — and to write well — however, is another matter. It was lyrical, wonderful, beautiful, and rich. It was everything I could have hoped it would be and was absolutely certain (having seen Tolkein slaughtered in previous forays) that it would not.
Go. Go. So you miss a day’s work. What’s work, anyway, if you leave with wonder in your soul?
