Why for some is it so easy? For me, writing is getting into character. Multiple Personality Disorder with order and control. Suspension of reality. Distance from laundry and the like. Disassociation from while intensely analyzing the mob. Full screen TV movie with West Wing embedded in the lower left hand corner. Sleeping through the downtime to be awake when active inspiration hits. Being there just enough so as not to offend or attract undue notice. Cloning oneself to exist among others while absorbing and expending energy from and to other sources and channels. Watchmen’s Dr. Manhattan is even dearer to me now, and I’m green with envy and wanting to turn blue.
I suppose it all comes down to organization of time and space. And understanding as to when one’s ego is swelling to the bursting point with imagined eloquence that really isn’t there. When to stop…and when to race ahead. Can days cut into chunks of opposing personalities truly be a learned and practiced format? Can weeks or months be rearranged to suit a mood? Am I just not getting it? Scatterbrained and lazy? Is it beyond my depth, or am I reaching in too deep? Can I forget the I and still exist and be productive? And this; why aren’t I smart enough to know?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology