When Life gets me down and comes screeching to a halt, I resurrect my joie de vivre by writing creatively. Does that makes me different from the archetypical image of Hemingway seated at a corner table inside of a Key West tavern early in the morning, sipping cognac and nursing a beer all day as he writes the next The Old Man and the Sea?
The truth about me is that I have no “writer’s block.” No need to drink to conjure up new story lines or dialogue. The imagination works all of the time; a standard quality of the output is the intended target, however.
I bleed for my characters, like any other self-respecting writer. I cry for them, when they suffer; laugh when they wax enthusiastic. I listen when they have new things to tell me and most of the time they’re more right than I am when I pick a fight or argue a plot point with one of them.
Words are my crayons. I’ve always preferred placing them in order over coloring within the lines, since kindergarden. Words are my imaginary friends, only you get to see them, feel with them and listen in on their conversations as much as I have, if I do my job well.
Just thought you should know. Because, for me, a writer, without you living would come screeching to a halt.