Taut, breathing fast and shallowly, I type, trying to keep up with the words.
The words shoot out of my mind into scenes. They fire as fast as a railgun.
The scenes explode and splash, forming for me to momentarily glimpse before racing into the next scene. I hear voices, feel the characters’ emotions, and experience their shifts.
Hunched in concentration, I type and type. My back knots. Tension stresses my neck.
I don’t want to stop. This isn’t what I planned to type. Again, imagination and the writer have conspired to create something I didn’t expect. I type as fast as I can to capture the essence, making errors in my haste, correcting them as I can because I can’t help myself. This is my nature.
When, finally, like a fading tornado, the storm of words end and I can probably breath, I stretch and look around. The day’s sunshine ambushes me. I don’t know what music is playing or how long it’s been on. I know it’s been on but it was so far away from where I was, I noticed it like a distant sound.
My eyes itch, my neck hurts, my butt is asleep, my stomach is rumbling in hunger, and I think I need to pee. The coffee is long gone. It was an intense day of writing like crazy. The story spun itself. It was just up to me to keep up. I missed some of it. Those pools of moments and details will come to me tomorrow when I review and edit what I’ve written.
I didn’t expect that direction, not at all, but I didn’t stop to question it. I just raced to keep up.
Now I’m supposed to walk but I feel so spent and happy. Walking seems so pedestrian – sorry – that it doesn’t seem worthy. I want to celebrate the words and experience.
And this is where it’s painful to be a writer. Because when you’ve teared up with the emotion of your writing and your pulse speeds with action and your body aches with tension and you sit up, pleased with what’s come of out you, there’s no one to celebrate with you.
It was a damn fine day of writing like crazy.