Silence is golden. Right? Not so much if you are a writer whose characters and plot ideas roll around inside your noggin. It’s gotten so quiet in my head right now; I can hear crickets chirping. I know I sound crazy, but I was the book worm who lived her early life through the pages of books. My imagination was a constant companion, and sometimes it got me into a bit of trouble as I drifted into my made-up world. My parents would get so frustrated with me.
I love to tease and tell people I have a split personality disorder and hear voices in my head. Then I smile. I love freaking people out!
Yoga and 5-7 mile walks tend to bring out the creative voices within me. I’m still getting some material I like out on paper, but the raging river is a drip, drip, drip right at present. I’ve retreated to the library to write, hoping Clare and Wyatt or crazy Natalie and her buddies will wander out of the dark recesses of my cobweb-strewn attic of a brain.
So far, not even a mouse skittering across the dusty floorboards…
One beautiful thing about being part of a writing network like the One Million Project, in addition to the charitable aspects at the core of our group, is the camaraderie between the members. A simple post about a writing issue, etc. and one or more fellow writers will be there to support and offer advice.
You discover you aren’t alone.
Writers can be introverted. I know I am. I love people and spending time with friends, but I don’t necessarily search them out. I’m comfortable being alone. And with the typical Grand Central Station chaos in my head, that might be for the best (LOL!), but when my mind is an echoing canyon and the only voice is my own yelling, “Where is everybody, everybody, everybody…”
Instead, Keith Urban sings sweet, sad songs through my ear buds while I look through the decades of pain, heartaches, love, joy, and passion I’ve collected over the past 56 years. I pull at the memory strands belonging to my 26-year-old self. At that stage of my life, I had more in common with my female protagonists and a little sliver of me lies at the heart of those characters. How would I deal with the issues facing these young women?
If the younger me pined for the man who’d left me behind, would I move on or attempt to find my absent love? If I was heading off to Columbia University, what would I be feeling? Would I love The Big Apple or wish I was home in Corpus Christi, Texas enjoying the beaches and sailing on the Gulf of Mexico?
Is that a little stirring of response? Lordy, I hope so. It’s lonely in here with only the crickets for company.