I am working on my own writer’s insight.
I’m a fiction writer, I hear voices.
I eagerly press myself against stone ramparts, feeling for distant accents.
I want to hear medieval voices.
Same with castles. I want to touch and be touched, to engulf myself in the surroundings, crying, shaking, panting, lusting, and dreaming of past lives working, breathing, laboring and feasting.
Only the Middle Ages tingles my soul and tantalizes my spirit and enters my page with such force.
Maybe it started with Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” when I was five, blue gown, grey horse, orgasmic castles; images I still fantasize about.
There was the forbidden fruit aspect; my mom hated the Middles Ages, giving no encouragement for enlightenment in the time, church or horses.
A Medieval fetish was born; sketch books and art projects reflect the obsession. In my early thirties I started hearing voices, nearly twenty years later
I am still writing their stories of love and lust in Medieval Ireland.
That answers the question.