For the past two months I've written very little by way of fiction and my imagination has been a barren sink in some off-world desert. But I've been reading this epic fantasy series by George R.R. Martin (I think) full of kings and knights and blood and gore, even three baby dragons have appeared. It's not that I aspire to write this kind of book, though I have a hard time putting it down, but that I am newly inspired by the imaginative power, the worlds and people created, the words. It reminds me of what I do want to do, what I've wanted to do since I was eight years old, which was to write novels, not just to read them. Not to write them is, at this point, would be craven (to borrow one of Martin's characters' favorite words), dishonorable to a high degree. There will, it turns out, not always be time. There is just the present.
Got to go!