Why I listen more than I talk.

Because simply put, I want to see what part of you, your words, your voice, even the way you run your hand through your hair might be the spark that becomes a new character.

I think we all have an inner character. The one we want to think is the real us but rarely is. But that’s not the one I’m looking for. In fact, I’m avoiding it. I’m looking at the beautiful patterns in the lines on the back of your hands, or the way your voice cracks when you finally talk about something real. The sound of your breath when you can’t find words so you exhale into the silence, watching it fill space words refused to occupy.

When I was younger, someone kissed me like my characters kiss now. She pulled me into her, hands light and sure on my back, then held my eyes, bit her lip and looked down at my mouth. She ran fingertips that were as light as thought up the back of my neck and only kissed me when I closed my eyes to melt into it. Needless to say, I never forgot her.

It’s those raw moments that my mind returns to when I’m writing.