actually writing again

The book. Ah, the Book. It's actually getting written, and I shouldn't be surprised by that, but I am. It always seemed like something I was simply striving toward, working through, playing with, playing in. It wasn't a thing, fully defined, unshakeable. No, I molded, twisted, excised constantly. I was never satisfied. I'm not sure I am even now. But I was never comfortable with that. The Book started out as a cry for help. I needed something, and I was writing to fill that void. Emotions drove the plot, the developments, the characters. The question was forever 'is this what I need?' And I got stuck, because what I needed was never constant. I am mutable, and so are my needs. So I found myself running into dead ends, following a passion to only have it run out of gas. And that was exquisitely frustrating. What on earth did I need? And why was it so hard to articulate? Needs are complex things, and I am wading through an incredibly complicated part of my life. This was never going to…