I want to write for myself, out of my own weirdness and onto my own page. I want to write something that other people will read, will read and feel seen, feel buoyed. I want to be a hermit in a cottage by the sea lost in a flow of words and water. I want to paint into being a community of writer witches with messy hair and dire thoughts. I want escape, other planets, distant futures, magic. I want to be always aware, to never look away, to stay with the people who are also looking. I want a fever of creation that is fast and steady and urgent. I want to rest in stillness, find strength in now. I want precision. I want surprise. I want to make plans, keep the end in sight. I want to meander aimlessly through revelation, experimentation. I want change to come, swiftly and exacting. I want progress in measured teaspoons without the violence of the knife. I want to be less angry less often. I want my writing to come from the bitter, twisted vitriol inside me and inside others. I want the c...