Starting to write about your life is like floating above a chaotic jumble of memory.  Then it comes to you that you are not yourself the chaos but have to separate and divide and classify and order all these things so that they make sense in time but really, they are all inside at the same moment.  So you beat the chaos with your fists until it loosens and little bits fall out.   And those bits become like islands amidst the jumble.  And you paste the bits that go together and keep them separate from the other little bits until you are afloat on whole stories like continents in an ocean of undifferentiated magma that flows around you and under you.

And you dive in to fish out the details that you need and sometimes they won’t come so you reach in the void around you and pull at notions that fit into the empty spaces of your ideas.

And whole gray worlds are appearing in your mind but vague and loosely joined so you have to make bridges between them and you search for light that will be like inspiration and show you what you want to say.  And the glow of your mind just hangs there, everywhere, with at first no purpose but the enumeration of living things and hard chunks of earth and stone which sprout from the continents like flowers and your inner eye is like a moving lamp that illuminates and creates as it moves across the landscape.

And you realize what you are looking for is where to grab this mass of rapidly emerging story so as to tame it to your will like a wild horse that is just about to jump out of the corral and begin to buck.

And where else is there to begin but with your parents who you knew and whose fragmented past you have been given?  Otherwise you would have to go back to Adam and Eve to explain who your are and to the beginning of creation to understand your world.

And you pick a point at which to begin and everything flows to the point and you breathe deeply now that you know that nub of your universe and where you will go and create a path through chaos and in that brief pause before the start you close your eyes and in a quiet restful state you sleep and dream your story and reach the end of your journey.  You have slept.  You wake refreshed and with open eyes, you write…