I am waiting to write. The waiting game is more excruciating than the writing itself. You wait and wait until something within you, the impetus, begins to overflow begins to overtake whatever walls you’ve built whatever hesitancies belie your abilities. At that point you’re left with no choice only compulsion. I am waiting to be compelled in this way.
As long as I am waiting, I am hopeful.
Being an only child really lends itself to writing since you’re always already in conversation with yourself.
I wonder about the impact of imagined interactions both from dreams and waking life. Like people I know, my thoughts about them, come not only from what they’ve said and done but also from what I’ve imagined them to have said and done. A lot of what’s imagined is necessarily that which wouldn’t occur outside of imagination, and this probably has a lot to do with both how love and hate emerge.