The writing must happen anyway. It grows, becomes part of you. It is an urge, a calling, a constant whisper in the ear.
The ideas come in bursts and excite the senses. The sheer wealth of possibility is sustaining enough for many, holding them hypnotized.
It’s like being in love with being in love.
The reality can never live up to the fantasy — in love as it is in writing.
This life of a storyteller will never be a fairytale. It cannot be. What good story was ever written with a foundation of happiness? No. A storyteller lives with discontent. But with the storyteller, discontent becomes something else, something to work against, something sustaining.
For the storytellers have the solution for their discontent: They tell stories.