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The Internal World Of An Author
I can’t speak for all writers, but this is what my internal world is like as an author.
I have a loud mind.
Stephen King once said quiet people have loud minds. I don’t know. I mean, I’m quiet when I have nothing to say, and I don’t ever have the need to hijack someone’s conversation . . . so yeah, now that I think about it, I do have a loud mind.
My thoughts constantly scatter.
I can have a conversation with my husband and think of other things at the same time. Where I get into trouble is when he’s telling me something I’m not in the least bit interested in. I’ll focus on my thoughts instead and not hear a word he’s saying.
My mind always turns an unexplained noise or situation into a story.
This is so true, and nine times out of ten I’ll tell the person with me about it. And yes, that person looks at me like I grew another head—unless it’s another author I’m telling it to.
I'll compare real life situations to fictional ones.
This is so true, and nine times out of ten I’ll tell the person with me about it. And yes, that person looks at me like I grew another head—unless it’s another author I’m telling it to.
I'll compare real life situations to fictional ones.
I’ll compare a situation someone is in or was in or something that happened that’s relevant to one of my characters, and I’ll talk about it.
Self-induced stress.
Self-induced stress.
Sometimes I become anxious and irritable when I have so many things to do like edits, rewrites, posting, marketing, etc. and not enough time to do them. Basically, I get overwhelmed, and my thoughts won’t stop whirling.
I have stories racing through my mind.
I have so many stories I want to write but not enough time to do so.
I have so many stories I want to write but not enough time to do so.
I’m never bored.
It's very rare that I'm bored. I have too many things to do to get bored.
It's very rare that I'm bored. I have too many things to do to get bored.
Crankiness.
If I’m not working on a story, I get grumpy and depressed.
Anxious.
If I’m not working on a story, I get grumpy and depressed.
Anxious.
I get nervous and scared when other people reads my story.
I'm a serf to my imaginary friends.
I'm a serf to my imaginary friends.
My character’s talk to me, and they can get demanding to where I have to appease them. I am their slave.
Happiness.
Happiness.
I get excited and giddy when I’m creating a story.
My characters crack me up and make me weep.
I laugh when one of my characters does something funny. I also cry when something bad happens to them.
So do I like being an author?
No.
I frickin’ love it.
Why?
Because despite the anguish as an author I go through to churn out a novel and market it, I created something out of nothing. I have the ability to transfer what’s inside of me, onto paper, and into other people’s minds. I can share with them worlds and characters they never knew about. I can teach them lessons or at least get them to think on topics they never thought about before. I can make them laugh, cry, smile, and get frustrated. I can entertain them. I’m giving something to this world that more than likely will last well after I’m gone, which rocks.
Yes, I’m overwhelmed.
But . . .
Being an author makes me happy and want to do a silly dance.
Enough said.
