Now

When I went through my introspective period these last few months, I thought so much about life and writing and art—everything. Some of us are just never complete I guess. That's why I love Carson McCullers so much, she was a lot like me, and was truly the kind of person that I can understand and, I wouldn't say model myself after, but I just feel close to her essence. Not to say that I can't appreciate all of the WONDERFUL writers around me. I love, LOVE being near and learning from all my literary friends. But I do think we naturally gravitate toward that which is similar. I understand McCullers—I feel her message: Loneliness. Heartache. Reaching out.

I wonder if that's why I love time travel stories so much, and ghosts. Neither one requires a person to completely attach themselves to society and yet, they can voyeuristically touch and experience everything they long for. I'll leave that for Freud to explain.

I think artists, and a good percentage of writers, are incomplete to a certain extent. That's why we create. A hunger eats away inside, and there's no food, no chemical, no person, no anything to fill it. So we write. Or we paint.

Dylan once said, "I shall be released, when I paint my Masterpiece." I haven't gotten anywhere near painting mine yet. Don't know if I ever will. How could a person ever really feel satisfied in this thing called life? I love my children and feel such joy being a mother. I feel joy writing and sharing words with all my friends in the literary world. But the hunger of life . . . I don't see it as ever leaving me. As always, a person must be happy with now. I have to learn that tomorrow is not the masterpiece. Now is the masterpiece. A child's soft touch, a friend's kind words, a glass of wine, a sunset, a bird singing by the window. Now.