This has been happening to me lately. An overwhelming sense of belonging to some palpable nebula that exists in the world of stories. Those voices of other writers there, and mine. It's a curious sensation of knowing that what I do has value. It's important. It adds to that pool and keeps it fresh, forever callow-green and succulent and spicy like honeyed grasses at the break of summer. It's like a nest of ideas that spawns same lines of thought in different parts of the world. You know, like same things invented simultaneously on opposite continents because the idea happens to hatch in the same air above, in that collective wonder-space of our consciousness. And I belong. I belong there.