Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Today was a bad day in a succession of bad days. But, on the plus side, I finally understood what people mean when they talk about writing being their escape. Of course, writing has always been an escape for me--I got to imagine different people and places, and I got to be there rather than wherever I was.
But the physical act of writing down, of creating my own story, was really what got me through today. I loved knowing that, when I got home from work, I could disappear into my own world. It's a fantastic feeling--but I don't want my real life to suffer, either. What do you think: Does writing only act as an escape when your actual life is falling apart? Is it better to love the writing and revel in that happiness, or try to patch things up elsewhere?
For now, I'm going to sit on the couch, drink some tea, and write some words. It's pretty much my idea of a good time.
Posted by Erika at 8:33 PM