I dreamed a dream

Back in 2006-ish, I wrote the beginning of a book. A chapter. I can never seem to write more than a chapter of anything I write. Not true, but the words are crap after one chapter, so I generally refrain from writing beyond an introduction. I can write a hell of an intro and a pretty good ending, but all the stuff in between lacks the same passion as the punch I put into each end of the middle.

So back in 2006-ish, I started writing. I had a playlist that I listened to obsessively as I spent weeks refining this one thing. The songs were stored on an iPod that has since disappeared, just as that one chapter and any further desire to write did. A few years later, I watched a snippet of Blood Diamond, enough to make me turn the movie off, and I plunged back into writing. The movie scene woke up a deeply-rooted part of me that I had forgotten or maybe didn’t know was there. I hadn’t realized how deeply Africa affected me. Little girl me absorbed, potently, people and places in that land, and they’ve lived in me ever since.

Everything I’ve written comes from that part of me. That’s where the words are buried.