I stare at the computer screen,

Fingers twitching over keys,

Thoughts flying as I consider what to do.

Within my mind, shadows converse,

Speaking of things long gone for them,

Events that I have yet to discover.

But, I am more than aware of them

Because of these flitting shadows.

 

I am not crazy, despite what others may think

When they see me staring at a wall,

Or a person,

Or an object.

I am looking at nothing they can see.

I see the shadows acting out events,

Acting out what they had done,

So that I may write of them more easily.

 

That is what a writer does, no?

 

Figures come in and out of my vision,

Asking for attention,

Begging that their story is written next.

I do what I can, but fingers

Are not as fast as tongues,

Going at the speed of sound,

Faster than I could ever move.

It is something I will have to get used to.

 

Characters crowd around me now as

I work, as I record their words and their

Stories. Visions dance in my head along

With their words, and I find myself wishing

That I could draw as well as some to pause

The scenes, to capture the words without

Jumping ahead of myself.

 

I sometimes wonder if being a writer

Also means that you are insane.