My hands tremble for the caffine, chugged two mugs of iced coffee with a shot of white chocolate creamer. Finally steady meds and I feel like myself, minus the thin sheen of sweat coating my entire body. Cali summers can be monsters, but I've had worse in this no AC house. I'm not melting, not feeling sick and not realing from lack of caffine.
The friendly tremour of my hands is back my gears shift almost too fast for me to peck out these words, and on my bed nex to me is one of the four books I checked out from the library today.
The Directors Cut of Miss Murder by AFI oozes from my speakers and wraps itself around me while I type.
I think about writing, even while I'm writing I think about half-formed clouds of ideas and all the characters battling for my attention.
"Writers aren't exactly people...They're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person." - F. Scott Fitzgerald.
This describes how I feel most of the time, like there's a swarm of people living inside my head, almost like multipule personalities. But they aren't that, they're extensions of my inner being, they bleed out from me as I slave to give them life.
I didn't chose to become a writer, at least I don't think I did. I just picked up a pen and started one day, and now it's the only thing I want to do. I'm not just talking in ways of a job, I mean the only thing I want to do ever. My fingers itch for my laptop, a pen, paper, they crave it.
When I write my body sings, electricity flowing through me and I feel alive.
I'm on the brink of maddness when I write, given myself over to the tidal wave of thoughts not thinking just cutting myself open and bleeding out all over the page all over the internet all because I have to do it. I'll die if I don't, I know that for sure.
Writing is painful, every word a battle, like pulling out teeth, it rips at your innards and your mind because it has to be real. The reader needs to be able to see it, smell, feel everything and the characters have to be real people that you'd see on a bus scrapping gum of their shoes.
We neglect our hygine - or maybe that's just me - because that's time we could spend writing. When we go out, we watch people, describing their actions in our heads, memorizing how they commit every action, how they speak because we know we'll need it for reference later.
We see the world around us and remember it because we have to paint it without colors, without a painbrush. Only 26 letters to create a world and everything a world contains. Anyone can write a story, pen out a tale, but not everyone create a world on a page.
Sometimes I wish I could crack open my head and show it to people. How there's flashes of everything going on at once, how I never stop thinking, creating. How the gears never stop turning and how it makes it hard to focus unless I bleed some of it out.
But maybe it's something only a writer would understand, everyone else would see insanity. But I think we need to be a little out of touch with reality to do what we do. We need to have one foot in the real world and one foot in the world the imagination.
And, sometimes we forget what world we're in. Hell, half the time I don't know where I am.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
