It’s amazing how I can lose track of time when I’m writing. Or editing. I fall into a bubble where nothing else exists. I forget to eat. I don’t answer the phone. I fail to notice the light outside is fading. My ass hasn’t even slipped into a coma, which is odd considering I’ve been parked on it since 7 this morning.
So what I want to know is this: Is writing a form of self-hypnosis?
If I write about someone running a marathon, can I benefit from that fictional exercise in a vicarious, placebo-type manner? You know, I believe it, I think it, therefore I burn calories and get my heart pumping, even while I sit glued to keyboard and sceen?
Meanwhile, someone like Katie-Sue combines NaNo with a day of actual physical labour moving to a new house, and I have no idea how she shifts between two worlds. Kind of like women who work full time and have children at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I just wonder how I get engrossed in a ficticious reality without being aware of actual reality.
Is this time travel or proof of mankind’s superior brain? I’d say the latter, but humans haven’t seemed to grasp the futility of waging war. So I guess I’ll wait for a monkey with language skills like dear departed Washoe to write a novel or play that puts Shakespeare to shame.
Maybe I should eat before I blither on about something really stoopid.