To be a writer is to be at once completely alone and everywhere. I can’t explain it better than that. Everything else you do is to be done with one goal in mind; to get to your laptop. Your every thought is about those people in your head dying to get out each day.
It’s like a weird disassociation where the rest of your life is secondary to the one in your mind. And every writer I ever met says something similar, so it’s not just me. Don’t call the authorities.
I guess it’s the artist’s mind we all have, shared by every painter and musician on the planet. The balance we all have to strike is between what’s important and what’s not, what’s real and what’s not. We must daily renew our thoughts on our priorities lest we lose ourselves in that other world.
I wish that was all over-dramatic hyperbole. It’s more true than people know. So, we’re all a little weird, a little distant. It’s not exactly a choice we make. It’s more like a battle we wage to stay connected to those around us when we want to disappear. Don’t ask me what drives us. I wish I knew, but I think we’re born this way.
Or we may all be certifiable. It’s a toss up really. I do know this; it’s not easy loving us because we retreat into our minds so very much that it’s like being alone, even if someone’s there. And it’s not easy remembering the real world. the world you didn’t build, at times, just as sometimes the real world is all too difficult to forget for others.
The moral of this blog post is be patient with yourself, I suppose. Try to grab onto what you can and hold onto it. There’s nothing wrong with treating our art a little like work, if it helps to keep our feet on the ground a bit. I doubt many of us are driven to succeed, but rather to create. There are lots of ways to create. We have to remember that. Making memories with people we love, who love us, is a type of world building too. The very best kind, perhaps.