So I mentioned that I “zone-in.” When I’m writing, this pattern gets down-right eccentric. I used to be completely self conscious of how my thoughts affected me. Most writers seem capable of sitting and dreaming. Quiet contemplation and organizing thoughts seem to be what people expect. I guess I’m not too good at doing what I’m supposed to. My imagination has always made me … move.
Writing is a very good way for me to lose weight, by the way. In my most “zoned-in” summer right after graduation I survived on berries with yogurt in the morning, iced coffee, and a small dinner. And when I zone-in, I have to move. I pace. Like a caged animal. I can’t help it, and dance beats help--and stuff in other languages or where I can’t quite hear the words, or if the words help with to punctuate the beat. When my thoughts get loud enough, I have to move.
I can zone-in so much that nothing else exists, but thoughts and my feet on the floor, and the music. I can’t feel hunger, I can’t feel my aching neck--which hurts more often then not--and in a sense I don’t exist. This is the best feeling ever.
When I write, I do something similar. I can fall into the page, into the words and everything outside the keyboard and my fingers dancing among the letters just...doesn’t exist. Then the story is, and becomes all that is. Even my fingertips cease to register. It’s a version of going on automatic, I think.
*Sources For Pics: Found on Pinterest
Baby on Computer: google.com