I've mentioned the novel I'm writing is the most intensive undertaking I've ever tackled, hog-tied, and imagined. I have revised it 20 times and I'm only 30k in. The outline is ever changing, and I'm constantly screaming while rejoicing. I am passionate about this little story, this opened world, and the odd and familiar characters in it.
I grow doubtful when I'm that into something. Insecurity is a learned behavior, handheld by that scummy whore, Fear. I'm working on breaking those two up, and bitch slapping them into last Tuesday, away from my life.
To get back to me, to where I lose the tangles that keep me from going wholly into the realms of thought I need to carry, I've returned home. To the things that I can (if not physically) mentally hold and transport with me into the looking glass.
Falling in love is more than a drug. It's a heartbeat, a breath into crisp air for the first time, the sound of laughter through the wail of tears. I'm hunting that emotion, or rather the birth of it. The first time you fall for something so immensely it changes your world - it provides the tools to create a new you.
So today I've gone home to The Beatles. To the songs that woke me up, had me fixated, in a trance, and dreaming wide - finding myself lost in spaces and places I had never dreamed real.
I was eleven years old when St. Pepper took me away. It's nineteen years later, and I'm transported back to a time when possibility was more than a word, it was the future. Because that's what I'm after, what I believe all writers search for -- to be the creator of something that will prove the original tardis - this time-machine, this tap into the vein of all transportive magic.