Since the first grade, I've known I wanted to be a teacher, but I also knew I wanted to be a wife and mother, a singer, a conductor, a writer, and of course, a princess. I have been all those people--well, all except a princess, that is. The beauty of writing is that I can still be a princess . . . on paper. I can fashion characters who are realistic or fanciful according to my whim. Writers like Tolkein or Rowling create entire worlds, kingdoms, and creatures, bringing them to life through mere words on paper. Shakespeare and Steinbeck hold the power to reduce even the most stoic reader to tears simply by manipulating language. The creative process has no bounds.
Most writers, it seems, are introverts. We are most comfortable inside our own heads. Even we who do not begin to measure up to the great masters can spend hour after hour alone with our thoughts and stories. If you dare interrupt a writer of fiction, you had better have a very good reason or expect to encounter a glassy stare or a full-blown fit of temper. Fiction transports the writer to an alternate plane of awareness. Thus, when the creative juices are flowing, an interruption can feel like being struck on the head with a heavy object.
My husband has learned that, unless the house is on fire or he has discovered a nest of rats in our kitchen, he had best leave me alone while I'm writing. Not only could an interruption incur my immediate wrath, but it could cause him to show up on the pages of my next novel . . . portrayed in a most unattractive light.
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