Sometimes I make a point to avidly observe everything around me. I note what people are wearing, the expressions on their faces, the cars they are driving. I give these strangers back stories and motivations. All in an attempt to understand humanity a bit better. There is much in life that doesn't make a lick of sense. I peer into the murky lake that is reality and create a world that does make sense. At least to me. For fiction is the lie that is often more truthful than the reality we perceive.
I love a novel that ends in happily-ever-after. No matter what sort of adversary the heroes face, the reader knows happiness is just around the corner. Honestly, a story without conflict would be rather boring. The characters need to bleed and cry. Suffering and obstacles and forks in the road make better stories. Conflict is relatable.
My characters and stories are significantly influenced by my life experiences. Writing is a tool I use to figure things out—solve problems, make decisions, discover hidden truths within myself. I'm terribly introverted. I don't even share my thoughts with myself. Instead, I depend on the words that flow from my fingers to interpret what is going on in my brain. A method more common, among writers, than you would think.
I consider the mind and the body as somewhat separate entities. Two parts that communicate, or not, with each other amidst the human experience. The absence of this communication is the starting point of many health issues. I am plagued by a mind-body disconnect where each part takes turns engaging in malfunction. Some retain their minds yet are imprisoned within their bodies while others lose their minds and not their physical function. And some lose both. Totally or fleetingly. I reside in such a prison. My mind is inflicted with an illness that freezes me under a menacing dark cloud for minutes or hours or days. Held in place without ability or desire to move. My body shuts down unexpectedly while my mind laments for the things I want to do and the places I want to go. I have searched unceasingly for the key to my prison. I feel like I could find it... if only I could write the answer. But my mind has failed me in that regard as well. I struggle to compose a short blog post. I lose my ability to think, concentrate, construct. I lose my desire to create. I sink into a deep despair. And, sometimes, it is all gone. Mind and body. And all I can do is cry or sleep. Until time eases my unceasing suffering.
Time, the most precious commodity, slips away before my eyes.