So I haven't written anything since my wedding. Which means my husband has never seen me lost in another world.
First, I run away and hide with my computer. I don't want anybody around. I'm thinking.
Apparently, I look disturbed or moody at this point in time. My beloved husband came up to see what I was doing, and he kept asking me if I was okay.
Of course, I looked at him with eyes that saw right through him into another world far away and told him I was fine. Which, perhaps, was not terribly reassuring.
But my thoughts are storming through my mind like a stampeding stallion, and no part of my writer brain wants to slow it down. Let it run! Let it be strong! Let it be powerful! This is the stuff epic plots are made of.
I wave him away and stare into my computer screen like I'm drawing my bow and taking aim at a faraway world. In truth, I feel like I AM taking aim as my imagination starts to formulate a landing spot. And when I release my arrow, it will carry me with it, soaring through the night sky and landing me smack in my story world.
Soon I'm pounding away at the keys like a madman. Swirling bits of story plot and character arcs flutter around me in disarray, but it's coming together. I can do this.
My husband wanders away, hoping that my behavior is perfectly normal and not a sign of inner turmoil. Ha! Of course it is a sign of inner turmoil! Are there not giants to be slain and worlds to set aright! Turmoil is the stuff stories are made of. But this sort of turmoil is not damaging. This is chaos that will be spun into order like a beautiful tapestry, and I delight in the feel of it through my fingers.
How long I stay up there in my hideaway, I do not know. But weariness hits. This is normal. This is part of my process. I know what is next but my fingers do not want to write it. I am discouraged. Is this story worth the effort? I know what I need to do. Step away from it. Let it stew in my brain. Come back tomorrow.
There's a way out of this tangle. The chaos I've created will come to a grand finale that ties it all together. But how? I close the computer and wander downstairs, my mind still spinning with my tale. My husband asks me how it is going.
I don't know.
But this is apparently how I look when I write. I never thought of it as strange until now. My family has been used to me. And now I see myself through fresh eyes, and it seems almost as strange to me as it does to others. Yet...it works for me.
I presume he'll get used to it...?