Have you ever been writing something and whatever it was, whatever path your thoughts were following suddenly veered back to reality? Something you wrote, something you thought, something you character said or did made you think of your life abruptly. Suddenly you realize the parallel.
I imagine this can be a good thing. Funny even, at times. But this time, it was not the case.
One small part of the reason I write is because I need something to keep the stress of life from crushing me. Without my writing and my books to read I fear I would collapse under life. I'd have an emotional breakdown...and I so hate those.
So as I wrote of a careless gesture, life slammed into my head and my characters, my story evaporated. And I was all that was left.
The kids in their beds. The lights off throughout the house. My little world silent. And me, sitting in the dark, typing away. My husband's letters in a stack near my elbow. Suddenly the worry and fear, the loneliness, the yearning for my other half was all but debilitating.
I sat for a moment, washed in self pity, in sadness. But I had a story waiting. I had to get back to Joylanna's problems. I placed my fingers on the keys, poised, ready for the journey to continue. When I looked at the clock I realized I'd sat, poised, for seven minutes, my mind blank of even the passing time.
I know I am an individual. I am strong. But my husband is my other half and I am therefore stronger with him.
And I am swamped with aching for him. His teasing. The way he absentmindedly runs his fingers through my hair. His endless tapping, like a drummer missing his drum. The mischief almost always present in his hazel eyes.
His arms around me, his head resting on mine, swaying gently is home to me.
I have my kids and the wonderful moments of watching them grow-even when they make me want to pull my hair out. It's love and happiness and hope and inspiration and protectiveness I feel with my children. It's beautiful, ultimate, and all encompassing. And different than what I have with my husband.
Can a writer pull themselves back into their story when this happens? Is there a technique? A secret? A ritual?
If so, I have not found it. So this night will be spent with a good book and a heart ache. If you know how to bounce back into a story when this happens, please share. If you have had a similar situation happen to you, I'd love to hear about it.