Sometimes it seems one must be in a certain frame of mind to write (sick at heart, completely shattered at the) and I’m not sure if it’s just mood, or rather what one reads that may serve to inspire (delusions of reality, the). It may indeed be laid simply at the doorstep of (illusions that we cling to, the hope) a clean house, a good meal, getting laid (that everyone is good and evil has at last) that leaves a feeling of well being and being successfully productive (been overcome).
I’ve written two stories in the past three weeks, pretty much from scratch, or at the very most, (but belief bleeds) a page that gave a setting, (from its core) not much more (from all the wounds). That confidence in knowing exactly what to write, how the story means to go–or how it can alter, if hyperfiction is in play–is such a wondrous high. Maybe that alone keeps the momentum going.
And then it stops. Likely because we’ve let reality interrupt and gave it much too much attention. Something not as frivolous as homemade french fries and fresh-killed squash. It becomes near impossible, or so it seems (sick, so sick at heart) to pick that thread back up and follow it (truly heartsick in the pain of feeling) into the realm of other worlds again. Other characters (and feeling that feeling not at all) who seemed so real and warm enough to touch you and each other (is easiest of all) aren’t answering the phone.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Writing puts us in touch with the collective unconscious, I think — we are, for the moment, the pulsebeat of what has gone before and what will go after.
That may well be happening. Current environment may affect the mood to write, but what comes out is drawn from a storehouse of experience that doesn’t reflect state of mind.
I sometimes blame astrology. I don’t know what it is. There are some days I write and some I don’t, and that’s all I can tell you. 🙂