Unconscious Autobiographical Art

It's another one of those sleep late, work late, stay up late kind of nights. After I finish here, I'm going to head straight to my room, where my unfinished novels are screaming at me to be completed. I've actually dreamt about my characters for the past few nights, and I'm taking that as a sure sign that I need to get back to work. It's been too long.

What have I been waiting for? That's the real question, isn't it? I spend all my time waiting, waiting, waiting. Wait to finish my books. Wait to pick a career. Wait to figure myself out.

I just watched P.S. I Love You for the first time, and there's a part where main character Holly talks about creating. I found myself silently agreeing with her...

"Just create something... new, and there it is, and it's you, out in the world, outside of you and you can look at it, or hear it, or read it, or feel it... and you know a little more about... you. A little bit more than anyone else does..."

God, it's so true. My writing--the only thing in this world that understands me, really gets me--has taught me so much about myself.

And I'm just beginning to realize what I have to learn.