First ideas are easy. They are flowers blooming above ground. Pretty, comforting, familiar. First ideas are flowers plucked too soon, liable to wither.
I want to dig beneath the soil. Seek roots, ideas that germinate in the dark. I want dirt beneath my nails. I want the secret things, untouched by starlight. Gristle and bone. But also blood, beauty.
I tire of blooms. I want the mandrake, screaming and fatal.
My mantra: write to the end of the pencil. That’s where the magic lives. Write, write, write. Beyond the edge of sea, beyond comfortable endings. To places unfinished and raw. To the truths I want to howl and deny.
The first idea is easy. I want to reach the fourth, fifth, sixth. I will ask How? Why? What if?
Magic is not easy, it’s not comfortable. Uneasy ideas are ones to explore. But they live deep. Fruit disguised as roots, gnarled and unpalatable. I know them by my reaction: flight & fear.
They are fearsome things, unseelie but true. The unsayable, the dark. And they live at the end of the pencil.