I missed my deadline for group last night, couldn't finish the second chapter of Lost Lamb. It bugged the ever-loving crap out of me. I couldn't stand it. I was kicking myself in the ass all day over it. I tried excuses or rationalizations--even good ones like the fact that I've worked overtime everyday this week--and none of them made me feel better. I guess it wasn't really that big of a deal, other members in the group did mention that I had read every week since we'd started meeting, and that it was understandable for me to miss a week. That wasn't good enough for me.
I feel like there's some underlying reason why I want to write so bad, I can't really place it. I've wondered before if it's a side effect of getting older--the need to see one's dreams become at least a little more solid if not completely true. I'm wondering now if that isn't it, I've always wanted to create, for a least as long as I can remember. I've never been very good at art, drawing, painting--whatever, terrible at it. Mediocre at best. But I've always been good with words.
I read a study about "the raisin effect". I won't summarize it here, you can look it up if you're interested, but the conclusion was one about experiencing vicariously through another person. What they found was that the centers in the brain fire identically, when you're hearing a story, as they would if you'd experienced it for yourself. I suppose as a writer I want to give others the experiences that I have in my own head, fiction lets me do that in a small way. They are still your thoughts and emotions but I may have inspired them. I think that's cool.
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