The other day I went shopping. I made it across the street only to realize I’d forgotten my wallet. A few days later I left my purse at home three times in the same day. I planned everything for a spaghetti and meat sauce dinner. I had the vegetables and meat cooking and discovered I’d forgotten to buy the canned tomatoes. I find myself going to the refrigerator, opening the door and standing there with no idea why I’m there. I either close the door and realize I was heading to the laundry room or try to retrace what I’d been thinking that led me to the fridge. Most times I give up to have the reason pop into my head ten minutes later.
I’ll be doing dishes and one of my kids will talk to me. It’s like watching a foreign language film. Their lips are moving, but none of the words seem to make sense. That’s usually when a very loud and exasperated “Mamma!” snaps me into reality.
Okay, I’m pathetic I know. It’s what I call the blessing and curse of being a writer. My husband would say that’s an excuse.
Seriously, though, the more I’ve immersed myself into writing fiction, the more I find my mind inhabited by all kinds of people and stories. It’s really hard to describe to a non-writer how you get caught up in the troubles of your characters, how you spend second, minutes, hours staring into space working out the best way to make life hell for your characters in order to get them to that happy ending.
Even if I wanted to ignore my characters I couldn’t. They’re in my head, telling me what they want and what they think. They demand I listen to them. They demand that their story be told, which is what I do.
Now if only they would remind me that I’m out of canned tomatoes…life would be bliss.