I'm taking a break.
Lately I find myself a bit detached from the writing part of my life and that is not a deliberate choice.
It's just that there is no time and if you read my post last week, you know why. But I read. Not as much as I'd love to, but I do. Everyday even if it's just for half an hour, I read.
You know how they say that it's important to read in order to write and as much as it is a cliché, it's true. The more I read, the more I feel a spark inside me, flickering, sometimes exploding as if I add fuel to the fire. Many times I re-read quotes and passages from the stories I read, and I dream of books yet to be written. Characters fly by my mind like migratory birds and I stretch out my hands to grab them, or even touch their feathers for just a single moment before they leave me alone again, holding a book in my hands.
My sis teases me, saying that I live inside my head but it's not me that lives in there but stories and characters and I want to help them get out, make them real. I know it takes years, effort, mistakes and guts, but there's really no alternative. I can't hush the voices and I can't bear to see those characters stay trapped in a mind that could have written their stories.
This is what I do. I write. I don't know if it's good, I don't know if it's crap, I feel insecure and there is the imposture syndrome troubling me, but I'm here to learn, explore and create. When I do that, I leave behind the doubts and the negative thoughts, I don't care about the after, I just lock those thoughts in a tiny little box, toss the key away and let the stories come out.
So yeah, you could say that for those moments of writing I do live inside my head, but when I land to reality again I'm not alone. We carry our stories the same way we carry the luggage in our lives and I'm determined to carry mine as long as I can.
Cheers to untold and half developed stories.
P.S: Here's the link for the pic.