When I awoke this morn, I didn't stop dreaming. I'm not saying dreaming like seeing idealistic goals or anything. My mind was still half in the fantasy land journey our takes me on. I found myself sleepy reviewing a plot I had thought about before attempting to convince my mind that the darkness outside and the late hour indicated was its cue to allow the body some rest. I assume I slept because the afore mentioned time had progressed and I had little to show for it but a need for coffee and a deep desire to grumble about being tired or something like it.
I write for myself. I am my audience. I write stories I would like to read. I seem to have a penchant for heroes over tedious relationships or high drama (sorry Jane Austin, I liked your books but can't see myself in one). I have a soft spot for escapism (Edgar Rice Burroughs) and science fiction (Isaac Asimov). It is hard to focus on the serious tasks of the day when swift submarines and hyper spacial travel beckon you to deep seas ridges and far planet nations skinned in gleaming steel.
What I mean is fantasy drives me to write. Writing drives the details of the fantasy. I write to disgorge the stories in my mind's eye and the act of putting detail and words to these visions drives forth yet more.
I shall ramble no more for the moment.
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