on Jane Friedman site:

Late last fall, the forecast called for one last day of sun and warmish temperatures. It was time to take down the garden for winter. After plotting out my work, I started with the small garden in the front yard. First I cut down the yellowed lilies, daisies and hostas, the coral bells and violets, keeping my head down as I bagged them. Raked the fallen leaves and bagged them too, then took them into the garage out back to store until the city’s pick-up date.

As I left the garage, I glanced up. Just that moment the sun came out, lighting the golden crown of a tree across the lane. It was a silver maple far older than any of us, and it rose high above the rooftops. Its pale bark make it look like an enormous birch, the full crown of golden leaves glowing against a pale blue sky. A faint wind blew and the leaves rippled, reverberated, emanated autumn. I felt completely happy.

Then a cloud blew in and the color faded. I smiled and shook my head, picking up my rake and getting back to work.

Happiness. We tend to underrate it in writing, caught up in the technical questions of maintaining tone, pacing, momentum, action. A pause to enjoy life, like the one I took, seems extraneous. Better cut it. Kill your darling.

Yet hitting pause at a well-chosen point can add immeasurably to a piece of writing, fiction or non. And I remember a particular time when it was missing.