Writing can be difficult.
For me, though, much of the difficulty is not in the actual getting words on paper part (though that's not always easy). My troubles come from thinking, thinking, thinking about the words that are about to go on the page. I think, think, think about the characters and the settings and what plot points need to go here versus there, or there versus here. I think, think, think about things happening in my life that can be used in the book. I think about things in my life that should never, ever be used in the book. I am in a constant state of day dreaming and wondering and pondering and ruminating. I can't turn it off. I can't compartmentalize.
This means I leave the house to pick up the kids from school – and I sit in the car wondering why it's not turning on. What's wrong with the car? Is it broken? What's happening? Then I remember, oh, yeah, KEYS. So I go back inside to find them.
It means I cook a pot of pasta – for 45 minutes too long.
It means I burst into tears (at maybe, say, the grocery store) when a sad but necessary scene occurs to me.
For three days in a row I forgot to eat breakfast. And lunch.
Last night, I grabbed a glass of water to swallow a pill – and it was actually my husband's gin and tonic. Nothing like a little booze to wash down those beta blockers. *faceplant*
There are bruises all over my legs from slamming into chairs and walls because I don't always see where I'm going.
This morning, the dog whined to go out back so I opened the door to shoo him into the yard. Ah, I thought. The breeze is so refreshing this morning. It must be a touch of autumn in the air! How nice! Only, no. The breeze seemed extra refreshing because I was topless and had been on my way to get a shirt out of the dryer. But it wasn't the breeze that alerted me to this fact – not right away. It was the quick, shared, "Oh shit!" eye contact with the neighbor that alerted me to my state of partial dress. Then, and only then, my brain went "Oh, yeah. You were going to find a shirt. Oh, crap, is that the neighbor? Hey, this is a great scene for a book." (DAMN YOU, zero lot lines. DAMN YOU, my brain.)
So now I'm finally settled into my morning writing space, trying to recover from yet another lost-in-my-head-omg-what-just-happened moment, and knowing that when I get back into the place I need to be to write I'll just be inviting even more screwball adventures my way.
This is the life of a writer, though, yes? I can't be the only one doing these things. Right? RIGHT?!
Maybe I should put warning signs around the outside perimeter of the house. You know, like the ones that warn of natural gas pipelines? WARNING: WRITER RESIDENCE. BEWARE. CALL BEFORE ACCESS.
I guess it's the being a writer part that's more difficult than actually writing, then, huh? Hmm.
Being aware that you need food.
Being able to find your keys.
Being a person who can swallow a pill without accidentally roofie-ing herself.
I'm going to go think about that while I burn a grilled cheese sandwich. But first, I'm going to finish this chapter. And I'm going to find some pants.