I guess I should say, I hate rollercoaster rides. I don’t mind watching crazy people take their lives into their hands riding in those flying carts, doing loop-d-loops, upside down, sideways…crazy, I say. The screaming doesn’t even bother me. It just makes me all the more glad I’m not crazy enough to want that kind of adrenalin rush.
I get my fix when I’m deep into writing a story; when my characters are behaving, or even misbehaving(just as long as they’re not taking it out on me). When I’m this far into it, I get lost to the rest of the world. I become a recluse of sorts, only coming up for air at night when Linda gets home. My friends probably think I’ve deserted them. “Not so!” I cry. They, like Linda have to be content for a while and understand I suffer from symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome. A hero worship or love of my muse who holds me hostage when I’m writing.
My muse keeps me company while I do the barn chores, and when I go for a walk in the woods with the dogs. And then she cracks the whip as soon as I sit down at the computer again. She sends streamers of words and phrases through my brain so fast my typing fingers can barely keep up. Although she gets frustrated when I lose a train of thought, she is always there urging me on. It’s impossible for me to not become obsessed with words, colors, scenes, and the processes of writing…and then look for her again.