I want endless motivation, unstoppable ideas. I want the life back where I had to stop myself from thinking about writing. From the perfect sentences coming, unbidden but welcome, in the night, instead of sleep. From drifting off into excellent plot developments at the grocery store, in the car, at yoga. When I couldn't wait to go home and write it all down. I need that space again. I need the creative to come back, so that every cell of my body knows that my first and best instinct is always to write, always to return to words. To know that this is what I do, and this is also what I do well. What a lovely thing to know.
I want to be the woman who has passion for her own things instead of trying to build a passion of feeding and clothing folks well. Those things will happen, naturally. Perhaps not naturally, but definitely. Most certainly people will be fed and clothed and most certainly it will be done more than adequately. Those being cared for would also most certainly prefer the caregiver to chase their dreams, not make the best of a situation. Making the best of a situation is what happens when you have to, when something really shitty happens, and that isn't how I want to define my life.