"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:
a human creature born abnormally, inhumanely, sensitive. To them, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create; so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off... They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are never really alive unless they are creating." --Pearl Buck
On my leather couch (which costs more money than it was worth) I recline with a book. A cat is curled hard into my ribs, and her purring reverberates through more than just my body. Looking out the great bay window in my apartment, I can see the pull and sway of the bare trees caught in the wind—the entire world is billowing back and forth to the pulsing of the kitten’s belly. With wild hair, wild eyes, and wild companions, I have become a formidable foe to this technological landscape. And now, in quiet and in retrospect, I am convinced that no conclusion would be suitable for such a revelation. We are all fierce, torrential downpours of heated and animated golden luxury, multicolored and misunderstood loveliness. It’s not so much the details, but the concept that emerge, that beg to be understood.
With one hand embracing the spine of my novel, the other embracing the demure beast next to me, I feel extremely lost among all of this wilderness.
And I wonder where the heroine of this novel will eventually settle.