I still haven’t found the balance between writing because I need to, and writing because I have to. I want everything to be an outpouring of the heart, to occupy my every thought. That’s not practical though, despite in the past not caring too much for practicalities. I want a story to consume me, to take me over and allow me to become it – but at a cost to my own self? It may ultimately be me who kills them, but they don’t half make it painful. And joyful. And there’s excitement and frustration and laughter and apathy and boredom and wonder. In a way, that’s what I’m afraid of opening myself up to again. I want to keep them at a distance, yet fear that will compromise what they are and who I want them to be. I know it won’t be long before they infiltrate my life again. Part of me wants that. Part of me fears it.