Inspirational?

I am silently plotting my overtake of the literary world. I'm creating a story in my head - a real page-turner, for my fan out there, and the millions yet to come. Apparently modesty is not something I was born with.. but sarcasm is.

I was thinking just the other day where I draw my inspiration from. Now, this is going to sound cheesy, so brace yourselves:
After I read the Twilight-series, the way I think seriously changed. Not only does the writing seem effortless to me, but it is beautiful and compelling and true. I lived what Meyer wrote through every page and created the scenes she painted with her words vividly in my mind.
She is so inspirational. She makes me want to write. These books forced me to stop and wonder what it is that I am so afraid of; and better yet, why on earth I should let some fear stop me from fulfilling my dream of being a published author.

And this got me thinking further - the authors I look up to and whose work I've practically inhaled are all female. Fielding, Rowling, Kinsella, Austin and now Meyer are all authors who are very different but who all give me that same feeling - that I can accomplish something.

I took a drive this evening. In the rain. I usually don't like the rain much, but the feeling of the air tonight is different - spring is most definitely here. The air was still, calm but with a slight edge. I got in the car and turned to a tune on the stereo that goes perfectly with that kind of weather. It's an old Smashing Pumpkins song that I discovered through one trailer or another and I think it's called The Beginning is the End is the Beginning. I let the base vibrate through my very core and settled in the mood that the tune brought. On the same CD I'd added an album by Blackfield, my latest discovery and what a jewel. It was perfect for driving around, thinking, trying to assemble myself again after months of being entirely consumed by another person.
Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter dearly, but I've lost myself a little bit in this new role of caretaker-slash-reverted teenager.
I dug deep trying to find these characteristics I had. The music I used to listen to and used to bring me such joy. The dreams and aspirations I had and need to reclaim. And my mind wandered and skidded to a halt at my ideal playlist a year ago. Muse, System of a Down, Porcupine Tree, and Portishead greeted me again like old friends. And this is mostly music from the UK, where my other roots lie buried deep somewhere, accounting for a part of a character that needs to come out of hibernation and quickly.

I need to write. I need to leave something in this world that will survive after I'm gone. I think about this borrowed time we have alot these days and I whince at how finite everything seems to me now. It is frightening. I cannot bear the thought of not being able to touch more lives and to leave something that will continue to speak to generations to come.
I just hate the thought of being insignificant.

Hopefully this mood will last and that I'll see the fruits of my labour sooner rather than later.

But for now, good night. I doubt that this blog will become any sort of outlet for my musings, and I expect I'll revert to the slightly comical (albeit sometimes misunderstood) entries in Icelandic about my otherwise uneventful life.

Until then,
I hope the revolution brings about fresh winds of change. If not, I won't come back.