says the bard: "we are such stuff as dreams are made of"

There's this author named Charles de Lint whom I totally love - love as in I love his books. I was getting really anxious today (which is slightly more problematic for me than for most other people since I have the lovely tendency of getting panic attacks) and for a break I picked up this book I have by him that I haven't read yet entitled Forests of the Heart.

Now Charles de Lint writes books that mix fantasy with the "real world" as it were. And that is severely understating his books but nevertheless, in a nutshell that's what he does. The thing with him however, is that he does it like no other. I have never been able to find another author like him that can tell a story in that way, or make me feel the way that I do when I read his books. It's almost like a drug I suppose. It leaves you high, and all of your senses as well as your mind raw and tingley.

I was reading Matt's blog Deep Into Winter We All Must Go today and among other things he was talking about his love for music - how it is his heart and what he lives for and as soon as I read it I smiled because I know exactly what he's talking about. The only difference is that I live for words, for stories, for writing.

Writing to me is something as natural as breathing as cliched as that sounds. It's just what I do. I fill countless notebooks with journal entries, poems, songs, stories. It's weird, but if I don't write for a while I feel almost ill. I need to put things to paper - or to a post or a word document lol, I feel good when I do.

What has this to do with Charles de Lint? I want to be able to use my words to make people feel the way I do when I read his books. I want to suck people in and captivate them. I want characters to seem like flesh and blood people. If I could do that...I would be incandescently happy.

I know. A writer. Me.

But why not.