Does the life inside my head, when I’m not writing, count as my Life?
Or do I have to go outside and be around people to observe and participate in that stuff in between writing for that to count as my Life?
Or does the time I’m just being empty-headed, doing and thinking nothing and not writing count as my Life?
I think it all counts. Thoughtforms tend to be phantasms but they’re really not ya know. The preponderance is on the action in our society but it’s not that way for writers. Thought forms are picked up by the mind and manifested into the cells of the body.
When the sky is gray, like today, or it’s snowing, all of nature brings a variation that causes lip licking and nose blowing with a temperamental euphoria that distinctly tastes like the air. I love the smell of the crisp air in Michigan winter. This is my life in between writing.
But even though the snow plows the street, must we go on an errand? I just want to drink my Earl Grey tea and sit in my master chair writing my latest musing. That’s the thing about being a writer. When my mind is swirling, my body won’t.
For now, watching the rhythmic drips from my roof out my window will do.