LK Hunsaker
mainstream fiction featuring the arts, relationships, & romance












In Empathy With Those Who Support Writers

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February 2008

It has to be incredibly hard to be the spouse/child/friend of a writer. Seriously.

Over the last two days, I've edited 100 pages, and I don't mean paperback book sized pages, but 8 1/2 X 11 typed, single-spaced pages, and now I'm trying to remember my family's names while my characters are still swimming around up there telling me what they like and don't like with what I've done with them and what I may still have to fix.

And I was supposed to go out today. I'm not sure I can. Showering would be good. Sleeping would be an option. Going out ... with more snow and possibly freezing rain and tired eyes ... maybe not.

I have a birthday card still sitting here for a friend who should have had it two days ago. My taxes are waiting for me to print and go through before sending them in. I have to go get passports. My kids ... I think are still floating around me at times, waiting out the obsessive storm. Oh, and I have to check work mail and print certificates! Oops.

Really, why would anyone choose to try to be friends with a writer (other than other writers who understand, of course)? We are so self-obsessed, well, character obsessed. We have so many people in our heads that sometimes trying to send one email to a live human being seems an incredibly huge task. We may remember birthdays and other important dates, but we may not remember to pull into the real world long enough to do anything about it. If we've done it in our heads, we forget our loved ones didn't actually get the card we know we have or the phone call we thought about and considered the thought as counting (although we know it doesn't).

We can tell you 100 facts about what's happening in our current stories or in a future story we have planned, but don't ask what's going on in our lives because we may not know.
Our homes may be unorganized and have signs of plots and notes and reference books and such all over everywhere, but inside our heads we see nothing but the neat stream of the story.

Food is nothing but a tool to keep moving, to keep working. Hot dogs or filet mignon ... as long as it keeps us sitting upright, it's all the same.

Now and then, we manage to pull our heads out and act like real people, long enough to feel incredibly guilty about our seeming lack of concern for those around us and try not to lose the two friends we have left, but then it leads to story fodder in some way ... and off we go again.

Oh.. sorry, just had an idea I have to capture before...

With Much Appreciation to all those supporting me and writers everywhere,
LK Hunsaker


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