A gene thing...

I still miss home a lot. I miss the closeness of family and the warmth that is just home. It's not easy living abroad when you call home and everyone is there. A few days ago, I called home on this number that allows you to talk for 0 cents per minute. That was simply fabulous. My cousin played the piano for me. It was like being back home again. I could almost imagine the softness of my mother's couch, the warm air blowing in through the open door and the soft swirl of the fans while my cousin played Fur Elise and Le Fontaine.

I thought that it would be the ultimate Science Fiction Fantasy come true to be able to reach through the telephone lines and touch the face of my mother.

In the space of this half year, I've learned such a great deal about myself. Isn't it interesting what a great deal we can learn just by listening to the stories that are going on inside us. I've discovered that I can't keep myself from writing. Perhaps it's something that I've passed onto my son. I know that he is so into words and into stories. I'm really proud of that. I'm proud that he's proud of the stories that he makes up, and I think that he should continue to do that. Sometimes, I wonder if writing is a sort of virus in the blood that we pass on from generation to generation.

Could it be that I inherited mine from the aunts who all wrote? Is it possible that they themselves inherited their writing bugs from our common ancestor who also wrote and was a bit mad? It's something I wonder about. If madness is a gene thing, could writing also be a gene thing?

I really don't know.

I just keep on writing.