Once upon a time, I wanted to be a writer. Now I just want to write. I want to write about fairies and death and kisses and sighs-after-kisses. It’s a bit silly when I realize that the following is the only “okay” thing I’ve written in a very long time:

The day started just like any Saturday. Charlie woke up at 10:30 or 10:33. He doesn’t really know because he can’t tell time. Not yet, anyway. But he was certain, and he would bet any dime, that it was time for breakfast. He smelled toast and bacon and juice and jam. And yes, his favorites, too: pancakes and ham!

That travesty of a chapter is the first of some story that I have been trying to write about this boy:

oneshoedcharlieboywallpaper.jpg picture by miwiyam

(by uzi)

 

But I am not worried. We are watching Stardust tonight and I am certain that I would have my fill of inspiration faster than I can say “pixie.” Gaiman is one of the few people out there who makes me want to write. Included in the list are Alice Hoffman, Anita Shreve, Shel Silverstein, and Pablo Neruda.

UPDATE: Included in the list are Banana Yoshimoto, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

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