In so many words

Happy Valentine’s Month! Love should always be celebrated. Know what I love most about writing? It’s the moment you click into that groove we like to call “writing mode.” You know the feeling—when the pages fill up like you’re reading instead of writing. Your characters float from scene to scene, expanding their world in color and texture; they say the darndest things and make you laugh and cry. When you, the creator, become nothing more than a vehicle for their story. I LOVE it when that happens. 

We writers see these things from the inside out. Should we stop to wonder what it looks like from the outside? How does this rather euphoric state appear to those around us? What happens when you feel a bit (or maybe a lot) agitated toward anything that draws you away from your desk? You might come across as short-tempered, self-centered, and impatient. Distracted by your—dare I say—fantasy world, you find yourself saying “sorry” more than you’d like. 

Wait. Do writers need to apologize when we find ourselves in writer mode? We try to be available to our friends and loved ones. But do we need to remind them who and what we are? Would that friend or family member stop their work to answer a silly question? What’s for dinner…? Did you see the funny video on…? Where’s the dog…?

Not too long ago, I found myself in writer mode with an obligation to attend a, well, let’s say, a function. Now, ordinarily, I’d be looking forward to attending said function, but when I left the house that day, I felt torn from a lover’s embrace. Okay, maybe a bit dramatic. Suffice it to say, while driving from here to there, I almost forgot where I was, the settings in my book appeared more clearly than the real-time roadside attractions. I looked directly at a good friend and could only remember the name of my main character’s devotee. In fact, I looked around and only saw people from my book—their dress, their smiles, their attitudes—down to minute detail.

Because I write historical fiction, I saw horses and wagons on the streets instead of cars and trucks. I saw my villain lurking around the corner—or was that on the evening news?

At the café, I overheard conversations and quickly jotted them down. Even the background music caused my pen to stir.

While out, I mostly listened, but when I did speak, my voice took on the drawl of an 1860s cowboy. (If you’re writing about a foreign country, don’t be surprised if you start speaking that language.)

Okay, so some of this is all in fun, but you know what I’m talking about. It’s the passion that is writing when you’re a writer. No apologies, but do be kind. I attended the function, I listened, I spoke, and I smiled. I hoped no one there saw that I was anywhere but present. I saddled up and took my leave, hungry and unable to find a proper meal. I had a certain craving. Hardtack and jerky, anyone?