I'm sitting at the airport watching people come and go. My laptop's plugged in, and I'm trying to write another hundred words before it's time to board. I'm feeling my way through a new project at the moment. Not sure what will come of it, but I'm enjoying the story and the characters. That's all I really need to keep going. There are so many different kinds of people around me. Family people. Alone people. People with pink suitcases and people with backpacks. Some are in a hurry. Others not so much. There are so many stories at an airport but not enough time to write them all.
“Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody—no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds...Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.”—Neil Gaiman in The Sandman, Vol. 5: A Game of You
I want to write these worlds. All of them. And maybe one day I'll be good enough at this writing thing to actually do it.