I think I’m beginning to see why a high proportion of ‘creatives’ (artists, writers, musicians) in history have suffered from some kind of mental illness. It’s an all-consuming beast, this act of creation. Writing non-fiction, especially magazine features, can be so reassuring — you’re interpreting facts in a certain way to support your argument. Emotion should ideally play a secondary role, if it does at all, and the writer is discouraged from bringing herself into it.
But novels and stories are so awesomely different. I live inside my head when I’m writing the book, and it can be a jarring experience when stepping out of it after a long hour or afternoon of writing. Living inside your head isn’t fun, and it can be terrifying sometimes.
Thank God for chocolate. And Perrier. And tea. My arsenal of medications.
The play is starting to form in my head, a nice respite from the book. It’s not as serious, nor is it historical, so that makes it easier. I’ve written a synopsis and a list of characters, although as I develop it, it’s starting to look as if I’ll be winnowing the list down from five characters to two. And it may start out as a one-act/two-scene play. Easier for a beginner like me.
Still reading Buzbee’s book. A lovely, tender valentine to books and reading. Next will either be Memoirs of a Geisha or Star Trek: To Reign in Hell; The Exile of Khan Noonien Singh. Yes, I know, two very disparate choices, but B.’s got me into this Star Trek thing, and Khan intrigues me. Fortunately, it’s a short book.