Home is where the heart is

I keep getting flutters in my belly about going home to Portland.  I’ve started looking for jobs, and an apartment.  I’m putting synopsis packages together for my fiction works and hopefully I’ll be able to get an agent soon so I can come home – buckle down and write.

I’d been agonizing over Los Angels for the last month thinking that I should really at least go try and make a go of it in the biggest US market for film and storytelling.  I stressed and stressed over whether I’d ever be able to feel satisfied if I didn’t go try to get into the film market.  Yet, even though I felt I needed to at least make an appearance, maybe even settle there for a few months or a year – ultimately, my heart isn’t in it anymore.  I just want the rain again.  I want the forests and the rivers and the bridges of the place I love.  I want to see my friends and be back in the community atmosphere of great people. 

I might regret not having tried to do the LA thing, but if I go and my heart isn’t there – it would be a waste of time.

What I really want? What I’m really aching for? I want to write! I want to unplug from my aimlessness and throw myself into the worlds I’ve been building in my mind for the last year.  I want to close a door in my own space and sit at my laptop for three weeks and be solidly in my own imagination. I haven’t felt safe enough to put my mind in the heads of characters since I’ve been on the road, simply because I never know who’s going to knock on my door or be in need of my attention. 

I want to pull my French press out of storage, unbox my book shelves and plaster my walls with made up world maps and dance around in my panties.

I want to wander through Washington Park barefoot and go rollerblading on the bike trail next to the Columbia.

I want- I want- I want.  Blah Blah Blah.

Ultimately, what it boils down to is… I’m ready to create and my body is tingling with all the possibilities.