"Many years before this, when I first set out to be a writer, I had entertained a dream of writing fiction, then quickly banished it - I thought forever. In the museum that day, I realized the aspiration had never really left, it had merely gone underground to wait its turn. The dream had been turning up recently dressed as whimsy, hope, impulse, and silly conceit. I'd refused to take it seriously. It felt beyond my power and courage, the sort of thing that made me shrink against my pillow late at night. As I stood before the Rossetti painting, however, my desire to write fiction crystallized into a pursuit that I saw as authentic, necessary, and even sacred. I now understood that writing fiction was a seed implanted in my soul, though I would not be ready to grow that seed for a long time."
Can the readership of 40 say wow (by the way, how on earth did I get a readership of 40? Who are you mysterious people?)? I feel simultaneously humbled and empowered when I read this. I think that perhaps, maybe it's not the most audacious thing in the known world to aspire to be a novelist. I feel like something big is maybe ruminating in my soul. I've always felt the gape. The part of me that didn't feel filled. And maybe now it's finally dawning on me that my small, inconsequential voice might have something meaningful to say to the vast world. The burbling, baby excitement is all I can concentrate on just now.