For the past few years, I’ve used the time alone in the car on my return commute to leave reality and inhabit the world I’ve created. I think about plot, character development, civilizations, culture, dialogue and whatever else might snag my thoughts. By the time I reach my home, reality has receded into the background, for me to go through motions until I’m at my computer, ready to type whatever thoughts had been swirling down.
This year, however, my thoughts have been disjointed and when I sit down to type, I’m desperately aware of the fact that I am on the outside looking in, instead of living and breathing this fantasy world of mine. Writing is sporatic and the words have little flow to them, appearing on a page like stumbling blocks rather than a stream of thoughts.
I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on. Am I not interested in the story anymore? (Not true) Is it chemicals in my body that’s causing the lack of focus? (Hope not)
I think I have the answer.
Since January, I’ve been calling my mother every day on the way home. She got sick in Dec and so I started that to give her some comfort and comic relief. Even when she got better, I kept it up. Why not? She’s 83 and won’t last too many more years. It’s the very least I could do.
The unforeseen consequence is that when I reach home, I’m still very much in the present and in this reality. Then with the demands of the house/pack, I’m mired.
I think I need to find a 1/2 hour or so after I get home, to place myself firmly in that world. Wish me luck.