I am so deep in my summertime daily writing fog that I am unable to have a normal conversation. This happened last summer when I was in the throes of Sludge. It’s back.
I am sometimes capable of discussing the weather but that’s only because my desk is adjacent to a big window which faces east. And once or twice each day, I look up from my screen and keyboard and think, “Hmmm, it’s not night yet,” or “That looks like a bird.” If a storm rolls in from the west, I’m surprised and lost.
Some days after I run and shower I write until dinnertime without coming up for air. Time flies by in the same way it does on a cold winter weekend when I hide under the covers with a cup of hot tea and a good book to read. Writing takes me on the same type of mind journey as reading; both stop time.
I would talk about my characters but I do know they aren’t real people. Talking about them would be akin to telling someone about my Aunt Mabel’s hairdresser’s bunions–a waste of time because it wouldn’t be interesting to the listener.
(I am very conscious of pre-screening what I say so as not to bore my listener. This is an introverted trait which limits my daily word quota but one I often wish more folks exercised. We can call this conversation conservation. I like word pairs with two switched letters, don’t you?)
I’m aware that my characters were hatched in the dark wrinkles of my little head and only exist there and in a file on my laptop. But I hope, hope, hope that someday they’ll exist for others on the pages of a real live book.
I try not to let them pop into my conversation and out of my mouth by saying ridiculous things like “Alex met his eightieth offspring today.”
Or “Claudia finally burned down the sex cubes.”
Or “Izzy was Chosen.”
I try not to say such things out loud to
normal people non-writers because out of context (aka out of my book) I recognize that these are bizarre characters and situations. (Actually in my book they are also bizarre.)
So I’ll stay here alone in my head for the next week or two, until I get to that place called the end. It’s close. I can feel it. Then I’ll emerge from the fog in my writing cave and rejoin the real world. For a while.