The Mind of a Writer

Many I have spoken to have explained how it works in different ways, with different words. These words of mine were written a while ago, but still hold true.

The idea starts with a seed. Usually I dont know where it came from. A song, a phrase, a photo, a person, a feeling. Something small sparks a scene, a setting, a character, a theme, a story.

Then I lose focus. Usually I would be at risk of losing idea until I once again cross paths with my spark. The focus is lost, but the seed is still there; floating, waiting, growing.

There it floats, a thin mist over my brain that will thicken and thin, waiting for its moment. It creeps in when I try to sleep, when I am commuting from place to place. It creeps in when I am eating, shopping, gaming. The fog can interrupt my conversations, my speech. It affects my work, my school. It affects everything.

Yet it is not something that I can force, nor something I can shut off.

It is an uncontrollable force.

It is me.

The fog is inside of me, and it has become its own creature. I am but a slave, the scribe lending the hand to transcribe the words, to vomit them up.

And then, there is a moment when many say that they feel a flash.

It erupts in a moment. The gears of ideas in my mind crank and fit into place.

The fog condenses into a heavy rain.

That is my opportunity. I feel that moment in my soul, in my veins, and if I miss it, it is gone until the next rainfall.

And still the hardest part has yet to come; I have not found the right words.

Nothing ever gets explained right. Movies flash in my head, so vivid, so clear. But there are never the right words. Never the right arrangement of 26 letters to truly express my thoughts.

Eventually I am left to settle, to write, to rewrite.

This is a piece of my soul, of my true self. I struggle to share it if it is anything other than perfect in my eyes.

It never is. So I risk it every time.

People respond well, they respond badly, or they dont respond at all.

Judging everything that I am.

In the end, I keep working. A slave to the images, a slave to the fog, a slave to the emotions that the scenes bring me.

I can only hope that someday my work reaches another the same way.

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