It’s been just a two weeks since the writer’s conference, and a few things have happened in this writer’s world, besides working diligently to submit requests from editors and agents.
Living through an earthquake, hurricane Irene and several tornadoes.
Two deaths; a good friend and my uncle.
Both daughters were sick–twice, and both have poison ivy.
Ah, the agonies of bodies out of sync and the excitement of weather events as seen through drama-teen eyes–the whine of the hurricane was nothing by comparison! And they had no real connection to the people who passed away, both named Jim, both on the same day. My grief was nothing compared to their agony.
So, why do writers write?
Escapism is a big factor. It takes solitude to be a writer, certainly. For some this is a necessary evil, for others it is solace. I fall into the latter group.
Let me escape from the voices and the activity and I will turn events into words. Which means I should be overwhelmed with possible stories to make out of the past few weeks experiences.
Right now, I’m just overwhelmed.
I need to escape.