A lot of people I know ask me what the inside of my mind looks like, this is just a glimpse into what’s going on while I’m writing, and I’ll be writing a lot during November – at least 50’000 words hopefully. This is my way of announcing, I’ll be doing my 5th round of NaNoWriMo, last year I got 30k in 10 days and then totally failed because I fell in love with Copperplate, but this time I want to be a winner again (like every time before). So keep your finger’s crossed for me. This is the time of year I’m usually back on twitter for word sprints, and random thoughts and word count updates, just in case you’re interested in the type of madness I’m kind of addicted to. It also means I’m probably not gonna be very active anywhere else. I’m not dead, probably just a highly caffeinated sleep-deprived writer-zombie, that I turn into as soon as Halloween officially ends with midnight striking and national novel writing month begins.
So in case you’d like to know what the itchy finger’s feel like and result in, there you go. This is what fell out of me in a span of about 5minutes, when I tried to describe the transformation into writer-zombie-me.
The Itchy Fingers
The feeling starts right about a centimeter above the hunger point. You know, that little spot in your stomach that starts to rumble when you haven’t eaten all day because you were too busy writing, or typing, or reading or thinking about all the things you could do instead of staring at a blank piece of paper. But it’s not that kind of feeling, it’s not the hunger for food, since I’m not bored and the crumbs of the piece of cake that’s no longer on my plate still have moisture left in them.
The feeling I get when the urge to write emerges from deep within me, is different. I like to think that my writer’s soul, my center of inspiration is somewhere in my gut, definitely not in my head, since that usually kinda shuts itself off, and only turns itself back on to remind me, that I should maybe breathe every once in a while, or sends an alarm, when the cup my fingers automatically reach for every couple minutes does no longer provide gulps of caffeine that keep me going. The feeling makes me feel giddy, takes away the stillness that usually comes right before it. The movement that was lost on me, during my search for inspiration wants to come back, all at once. My toes start to move, my foot wants to shake, my fingers stretch, reach for a pen or better – keys to be typed on.
I find a space of emptiness, where there’s nothing but darkness, and a blank screen shining just enough light to maybe illuminate a probably expressionless face, or at least I guess it is, since my head shuts off and does no longer care about what my face looks like. Now it’s like some spirit takes over my hands and starts to guide them over a keyboard in a pace that I usually only keep up with when I try to get code down, but this is not some kind of code, this is like vomit. In the best way even if it sounds gross, and it definitely is a lot of jumbled letters and half-eaten sentences all kindof put back in another order, trying to convey meaning that my writer’s soul is coming up with on the fly.
It’s as if I am completely taken over by the voice another person wants me to put down on paper. I might not know the character yet, I probably never will, because he or she usually only shows me certain parts, they don’t like to be known too well, I like them mysterious, because somewhere deep behind the blind eyes there is still the author in me, that is actually just a reader, anxious to see the story unfold. I feel like I am actually typing at the speed of my reading which means that I might miss some of the details and sentences until I come back to them and realize that some of it actually sound quite poetic and would deserve a kindle highlighted sentence, and other sentences are pure crap.
My mind is just a giant mess, puking out all those words of a story never supposed to be seen, because it will never be perceived as done, but my mind does not care about that now, not when my finger’s are itching and my foot is echoing the beating of my heart. Somewhere in my mind I try to concentrate on lyrics of a favorite song that comes up in the background and I want to sing along, but my lips are sealed, all powers in my hands, trying to keep up with what the character tells them to do, until all words run out, the powers fade away and the mind decides to pause, until the finger’s itch again, just until that little knot in my gut begins to scream for attention again.