That is a very ambitious title for what I want to talk about and I have no confidence at all that I am going to be able to express myself with any clarity but…
what the heck… it is past midnight and clarity is optional on this side of the night.
Last autumn, I experienced autumn as if for the first time in a while. I crunched through the leaves and watched winter bloom and wane all as if I had skipped the previous year. Which was odd because I hadn’t gone anywhere.
Everything felt new to me. I felt more alert and more present in my own reality than I had been for a long time.
This made me realize what writing does to a person. Fiction writing specifically because it’s the only one I am familiar with. And okay, I am generalizing so this could totally be my experience alone. I’m sure other writers will pitch in if they read this.
I feel like to write somebody else’s story, you somehow have to thin yourself out so much that you exist as nothing but the pen which is doing the writing. Your you-ness is cast in shade and you become nothing but the reflecting lens for the characters whose stories you are writing.
And it’s bloody exhausting.
But in some ways this process of writing is deeply fascinating. I wonder if someone has compared the brains of writers with the brains of non-writers. What differences exist? How do our brains differ? Are the differences significant?
I should probably sleep. I always get into trouble when I think about things like these…like thinking about writing a book about writers writing books. Hah.
And you know, this also makes me understand how people married to writers suffer. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be married to someone who wrote if I wasn’t a writer myself because they’d always be selfish of their alone time which would differ from their thinking time and their writing time.
I should stop talking to myself now.