Sunday, June 5, 2011
Writers are Odd
I woke up this morning, looked out the window, and saw paradise. The sun was shining (and in Vancouver that is a rare a sight), birds were flitting, Disney style, between trees, flowers were blooming and the scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns wafted up to me from the bakery down the street.
It was heaven.
What did I do? Did I go for a walk? Did I go for a (much needed) run? Did I make myself coffee and sit by my open window to enjoy the sights and sounds of spring?
No. Of course not. I'm a writer.
I booted up my computer, drew the curtains, and picked up editing a scene I'd been editing on and off for the last three days. I did, eventually, take a coffee break and, when I did, got to thinking about writing and its relationship to good mental health ... and whether there was one.
Who but a writer would spend a beautiful sunny day locked in her apartment punching away at little black buttons for hours on end? I guess a case could be made for writers, necessarily, being a bit ... let's call it eccentric.
Okay, that's my self-reflection for the day. :)