Writers Are Weird

 Writers are weird creatures. 

We constantly straddle the fence between reality and fantasy. At random times (and sometimes inappropriate times) we log what is happening around us, filed away for possible future use. A conversation. A feeling. The smell of the air. The way someone cried. We do this without realizing.

We stare sometimes and don’t realize we are doing it. Just because there was something about you that is interesting. The shirt you’re wearing. The way you walk. The way you hold your hand.

A momentary muse that kickstarts that part of our brain that takes us to an alternate reality. We are confident. We have crushing self doubt. We get excited telling a story.

We curse the voices in our head some days and we beg them to return when they go quiet. We have favorite pens and stacks of unread books. Notebooks and flash drives filled with scribbled thoughts.

It’s a constant roller coaster of emotions as we walk through the worlds we made up and walk beside the characters we created.

Then we hand it over to complete strangers and brace for impact.

Then we do it again.

And again. 

Writers are weird. And I’m proud to be one.