In postscript, Tamar wrote:
"But the real reason I write is far simpler. I write because it gives me a rush. A physical rush. Oh, not the kind of writing I’m doing right now, putting words together to describe or muse on a given topic. Fiction. Dipping into the stream of semi-conscious right-brain meets left-brain word/sentence/story shaping. That kind of writing."
Tamar so aptly described what I feel; I can't imagine a life where I didn't want to tell stories. It's a fact of who I am, though life would have been far easier if I'd had this same drive to be a great contractor or accountant or seamstress. Tamar hit it exactly when she describes the process of writing in her entry quoted above -- there's a feeling of losing myself in the story, of being both creator and participant, of stepping completely out of this world and into another one for a little while.
I had not realized that there were other people in the world who did not have this sort of response to writing. (I mean, how could everyone not be like this? And then I realized, most people aren't like this. I am a freak. A happy freak. heh.) One day a few years ago, my philosophy professor / mentor and I were talking particularly about reality and how it relates to sight. How we define our world by what we see and hear around us, and somehow I mentioned how my reality completely alters when I'm in the stream of the story, as Tamar described above. I may be typing on the keyboard, looking at a screen, but there are long, crystal clear moments when what I'm describing becomes three-dimensional around me, down to smells and sounds, blocking out what's really there. My professor was a bit stunned, because he sees absolutely no visuals when he's writing creatively -- he said he never had had that sort of imagery in his head. To me, that would have been as awful as having a limb amputated, but he'd never known the difference. But it did explain to me all those times when the kids would stand at my side, trying to get my attention, trying to break into that world I'd created and I would turn and look at them so blankly (because I hadn't quite "come to" in the real world yet). Or the many many times they would ask questions or tell me something and I'd nod or mumble some response that had no meaning to them, and they'd realize that mom was gone again. What a strange creature they had for a mom; I think it might have been a little easier if I'd been blue or something -- that, at least, they could have sold tickets for.
Posted by toni at February 4, 2004 01:41 AM