I have not been able to find that mystical space where I find stories. It is lost in the fog of long hours of work and no silence, of dreams interrupted by my alarm at 6:00 in the morning. It is hidden by days busy with small chores and many very important jobs and lists of actions undone for lack of time. I need to tell myself some stories and write them down, even if they do not translate well into other peoples ideas of readable fiction. First it has to be for me and then I can fit it into a form that others can use.  I have to find the space in time that allows me to create worlds in my head that I can put characters in and watch them move and interact. I will listen to their tales and passions and watch their faces and think thoughts that are theirs and mine. It’s only a little bit crazy, but it keeps me sane to use my mind in this way.