I was at a bad place today. Sorry couldn’t talk.
I write about myself. I can’t help it.
Anything I write even if it is about an alien race in some distant corner of the universe, I’m writing about me. Yes. That’s how it works. We invest ourselves in whatever we do. A small part of us gets transferred to the blank paper, the empty canvas each time we leave something on the paper. This is not a nine to five thing, this goes on and on and on and on. We live our characters’ lives. We feel what they feel We see what they see.
I saw a great TED talk yesterday by Sting. He talks about how he started writing songs again. He says
When I started writing about others I realized I was writing even more about me!
One of the previous chapters proved particularly demanding, that I needed to begin this post, but as I tackled it, I forgot about this post. Apologies if this seems half-baked; it is.
P.S. On the seventh chapter, lots of stuff to write.