This morning I woke up singing the body electric in my head.
'I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul...'
J'adore Walt Whitman.
'...and if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?'
I'm hoping this is a sign that while I'm sleeping, my unconscious continues to slowly untangle my story and and issue it forth.
Last night I was contemplating how the expression of the inner mind can be written with subtlety and grace and insight and understatement, so that the reader who reads the lines on the page is satisfied with what they take from the story, while the reader who sees beyond the text finds a richness there, greater than they expected, which pleases them.
So I keep reading Whitman because I'm sure there's an answer in there somewhere...