I am... a twenty-something geek living in the urban rainforest of Greater Vancouver, a geek of geek upbringing, and have understandable difficulty relating to (or evidencing patience with) relatively normal people on a regular basis. The closest I get to religion is believing that being creative is a duty as well as a delightful curse; people who can change others' minds have to be careful how they change them, because there's a reason tyrants tend to murder poets.
Er... grew up in fandom, and actually remember a time before blogs. Read fic, write fic, and have been struggling for nearly a decade to finish a coherent novel. (RECENT SUCCESS! Currently in panic-and-hair-tearing frustration stage of editing into appropriate shape to show to agents.)
Am a Writer of urban fantasy, mostly, and would like to make a living doing it... mostly dream of getting just famous enough to build a little house in the middle of nowhere, set up a T1 connection, and be able to fly anywhere I want to visit my friends, whenever I want (or better yet, fly them to me). This would make me endlessly happy. All I need is tea, chocolate, the Internet, and at-least-remote contact with my weird little tribe.
Maybe a dog. :)
We are questioned by and bemuse those in greater number who, for the most part, are content to sleep; alone, untied, in a small, unwindowed space.
Our bright, hot, always, unwavering agony seems too much to bear, for long, short of breaking.
And yet, we feed it, spark it, give it sun, to grow and choke us into betraying ourselves as ourselves: malcontent, undesirable, excessive.
And we tell them that it is that we must, that we must love, and hate, sometimes, as they do, from that place beyond thought and numbers - unwillingly, and painfully, and joyfully.
Burning alive, we sometimes tell them, is the sole avenue of those somehow righteous and condemned.
It is, we are driven to say, a better thing to blaze, in great and famous short-lived frustration that makes a cloud of smoke seven stories high, than to smoulder, slowly dwindling to an air-starved cinder, which quietly, guiltily, will wink out like stars at daybreak.