Here. That’s me yesterday. A shadow makes me look like I have only one tooth and that, folks, makes me laugh, as anyone who knows me is well aware that I am a dental obsessor. Can anyone read the Post-It?
The editing process, when I am really focused on it, brings out my hermit side. I have, actually, more than a few projects going on this week, all of them needing my prompt attention, so my attention-span is good, at least, despite the stress. The only problem arrises in explaining to non-writers why I’m off the radar.
And, that’s why, to me, writers are fine people to deal with, generally speaking, though I have met a few exceptions. We thrive on being left the hell alone.
Every writer has his/her rituals, things we do when we have to shut out the world and focus. Some eat only one food until it’s all over. Some chain smoke. Some refuse to bathe until the storm has passed. I need a particular pair of shorts and an endless supply of bottled water. And, for some reason, when I’m under the crunch, everything I eat gets lots of hot sauce. Whatever. A far cry from the Hemmingway-ish boozeathon some aspire to in the literary mystique, but it’s what makes me go.