Sometimes when the light shown through my window at just the right part of the evening at just the right time of year, it struck my vanity mirror and then my hand mirror, if it were sitting on my desk in its usual position, so that the columns of light intersected to light up the dust particle constellations three feet above my pillow. All of my best stories sparked out of that scintilating cloud.

But last year, we moved to the other side of town when Mom got her new job at the outpatient clinic they opened in an old church. Now, I have to make due finding patterns and forming worlds in the swarm of bugs that gather round the lampost each night after it gets dark outside.

This is hard. I really need some ideas to go on otherwise it feels empty when I'm writing, even if I'm okay with the words themselves. The problem is that if I write without having the ideas in place first, then I end up with words on the screen that I can't justify. I don't know why they are there, what they mean. When the idea comes first, the words might not follow as naturally, but at least I know where they came from.