DeLynne is writing a book. My sister is writing a book. I am writing a book.
Actually, let me correct something here, because I try not to make a habit of presenting untruths: DeLynne talks about writing a book. I talk about writing a book. My sister talks about writing a book and I suspect Lesa would talk about writing a book if she didn't have to spend so much time taking care of Mrs. BG and her delicious book nook.
What drives us to write, or to create at all?
Sorry. This isn't that post. If I knew what it was, I'd cure it, because it is like a drug.
I don't know what it is, but I know how it feels.
To write is to dance with the Universe.
There's a reason so much art has been offered up to the mythical forces that seduce creativity from the ether through little ol' us.
But it's hard.
It's hard to keep your toes (ego) out of the way.
It's hard to keep up with the muses because they have those annoying trim, lithe, dancer bodies and we all have the cubical, baby weight, not fifteen year old bodies, or exactly fifteen year old bodies with the exact gangling that comes from all that power we've yet learned to wield.
DeLynne, Leslie, any of you out there dancing, write. We owe it to ...well, pretty much everyone.