Soft. Quiet. Still. Letting things seep in. Things I didn't know were there. Dreams and memories. The edges of things I want that I can't identify yet. Poetry. And pictures in my mind of characters I haven't met yet and the places they will go and the people they will be.
I long for time like this. I long for true summers and childhood back again.
Things are clicking, but I don't know if I'm fully listening yet. This weekend I had a mini-revelation about how my outlets may be letting out things I need to keep in, or things I need to let out through other doors.
And then I went and read this (courtesy of Seth Godin) the very next day (about music, but with relevance for writers) and it was obvious the universe was trying to tell me something if only I would listen.
And it all gets me thinking about creating, and making space for it, the space I used to have when I was young, my years without a television, the sensation of boredom, doodles on a notebook, dusky hours, room for things to stir, time for things to steep.
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