I think a lot about writing, as most writers do, probably. I think about the process, the spark of inspiration, the flow of words, and how I make this grey squishy thing in my skull do what feels like magic to me so much of the time
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Possibly sex? Pondering and plotting and outlining as foreplay. I am apparently REALLY into foreplay. Lord knows finishing something and being proud of it is akin to getting off.
Mine is literally...so I used to dance ballet (classical) fairly seriously and I acted for fun/school. So I tend to think of writing like learning dance choreography or...putting together an acting scene/character motivation (lots of external research, drawing on external props (music, costume, pictures) and it goes from there. It's like...I'm channelling a character through me, almost like I am in acting or dance.
In some ways I think of it like putting on/preparing pointe shoes (writing a draft) and the performance is the actual writing of the story (my brain thinks in visual way too much for someone who has no visual art related talent *g*)
That is a thing! :D (I have whole playlists and songs I use for this purpose).
Thanks to real life and school, writing for me is a long distant lover. Most of the time we get snatched moments where we get to do a bit, never anything substantial. Ten minutes here, maybe an hour there. We check in every so often, and I'm always thinking about it.
But then the lover comes home and I barely come up for air, spending eight, even ten hours writing away. These days come in clumps; two, three, even four of them.
Then my lover has to go away again and back to snatched moments we go.
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Maybe this just means I read too much porn.
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I definitely do that within a scene, kind of "get in character" of the POV character before I wrie.
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That is a thing! :D (I have whole playlists and songs I use for this purpose).
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Sometimes I think of it also like blowing glass or spinning sugar.
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But then the lover comes home and I barely come up for air, spending eight, even ten hours writing away. These days come in clumps; two, three, even four of them.
Then my lover has to go away again and back to snatched moments we go.
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