I spent the entire weekend battling a migraine the size of a tsunami, and now my faculties are returning, one by one, like washed-up debris on a devastated shore.
I think one of the major reasons I had such a walloping attack could be because some of my characters are taking over, and I have been expressing ( or struggling not to express) primarily their reactions, not mine, to any given stimulus.
A writer friend called this method-acting– I had not thought of this in those terms before. I’m currently inhabited by an uber-successful closet-lesbian writer whose daughter is making a rash marriage, a self-pitying ego-maniacal cleaner who is worried about how fat he is, and a woman who lost her pregnancy years ago and is still coming to terms with it.
All three took me over from time to time during last week, and made it impossible for me to push through my real self, and behave as Me, not my characters. Meditation helps, but the effects are not long-lasting, because I’m not a good monk, I suppose.
This kind of inner chaos is why I think I’ll never take up writing full-time.
I have too much imagination, and not enough good sense, which makes me an easy victim for my characters, who take my head over like ghosts are reported to take over mediums at seances.
If this is true, and not another of my imaginative hypotheses, it bears think about a little.
Especially after I held in my hands a printed book which had my name printed inside it, above a story I’d written some time ago. The book would be available shortly in local bookstores, and it would be a strange thing to walk in and see it on the shelves.
I should probably push the answering of my write/ stop writing question under the house carpet till then. Perhaps by stamping on it repeatedly as I walk around, I’ll be able to get rid of it altogether.