Though writing might be an insular task at its heart… inspiration is not.
It comes from the strangest places, the most random associations and interactions sometimes.
Finally, the words have begun to flow. I was up until 2 a.m. with the last hurrah of the sangria wine punch at my elbow (if you don't count the collection of wine-saturated fruit in the bottom of the container) transcribing things scribbled furiously during my hour break at the day job.
Its becoming apparent that I lack the ability to 'balance' things in my life. I'm so thoroughly focused, throwing everything I am in things in an "all or nothing" sort of way, that everything else will suffer.
It is what made FOAT/DEoH what it is. It is what made Black what it is, too.
I don't know if I'd change that, even if I could. Do I want to write half-heartedly? No. Don't want to love my kids or siblings or anyone else half-heartedly, either.
The other things don't cease to exist… they just shift out of focus so to speak, like how objects along the periphery of one's vision don't cease to be… they're just blurry.
Know yourself. Know your adversary. And know victory.
Sun Tzu strikes again.