It is lucky for me that I have children. If I didn’t have children, I fear I would turn into a hermit. I would be one of those crusty (as in–I forgot to shower for a week), socially awkward (because I have not talked with real live human beings in days), pale skinned (because I would have no reason to go outside what with those nice delivery men willing to bring food to my door) writer types who stares at her screen all day engrossed in a world of her own imaginings.
You have my children to thank that I am a nice smelling, fairly socially adept, non-albino human being. They keep me anchored to the present and to real life.
If not for them I would tumble from one world to another, sometimes my own, sometimes of someone else’s creation: Sookie Stackhouse (excepting the final book which was a disappointment of epic proportions!), to Jon Snow (I was a fan before all you people had even heard of him!) to my own characters to Rachel Morgan (the Hollow series) to Elena Gilbert and the Vampire Diaries (though that obsession has waned over the recent seasons) back to my own novel to…well you get the picture.
This summer, as I have committed to finally finishing this darn book that has been stewing in the back of my brain for the last three years, I have very clearly seen my own pathology. I’ve always known that I have a streak of the obsessive and compulsive in me. As I delve into this world and realize more clearly how my mind works, I realize the proportions of that pathology. My mind doesn’t work in small measures–it’s all about immersion.
I approach writing (and reading or my favorite tv series for that matter) much like a method actor approaches a role. In my pre-children days, I was an actor, and I once was asked by a director how I would explain my approach to acting. I explained it something like this. When I act, I slip into my character’s skin. I see through her eyes, I feel what she would feel, and I think how she would think. In essence, I detach from myself and become someone else.
I write in the same way. I stop being Heather, the overworked Mommy, and, in the case of the novel I am currently focusing on, I become Jen. I think like Jen, I look at the world through Jen’s eyes, I feel what Jen would feel. My best writing comes when I can totally immerse myself in her world–and detach from my own. Like I said, we’re talking hermit–I can’t help but think of Jack Nicholson in “As Good as it Gets.” That could be me.
Except for the fact of my children. Yesterday, for example, I was pulled from Jen’s world for a myraid of reasons: because they were hungry, because Arabelle yelled at Lily, because they were desperate for a popsicle, because there was a beetle in Arabelle’s hair–the list is endless. It certainly puts a cramp in my writing progress. I didn’t finish the chapter I was working on; I only made it about halfway through, and instead of hitting the 5,000 word mark for the day, I ended at 3,500.
BUT, as aggravating as it is initially, I am so grateful for those little people who pull me back to my world, my real world, and my real life. Otherwise, I fear I would be so busy reading about someone else’s adventures or creating adventures for my fictitious brain child, that I just might forget that I need to have adventures that are all my own.
With this in mind, instead of diving into my novel in an attempt to hit my goal of 62,000 words by the end of the day (I’m currently sitting at 58,000), I am putting aside the world of Jen and taking my girls to the zoo. Her world can wait. Today, I need to fully engage in my own world. I need to take a shower, talk to some real life people, and feel that hot Texas summer sun bake my bones.