Writer in a Monster Costume
- Virginia Woolf wrote her books while standing up.
- Edgar Allan Poe habitually wore black. Emily Dickinson and Mark Twain wore white.
- Charles Dickens walked nearly 20 miles a day.
- Stephen King writes in the same seat at home and arranges his manuscript and notes in neat piles.
I’m a creeper.
I love crowds. The more people in one place, the better. Why? Because I’m the one eavesdropping on the conversation next to me. And it’s not just my ears that get a workout. I people watch too, mentally taking notes about interesting body language and unique individuals.
I’m a zombie.
Usually I’m a very good listener. Key word: usually. Sometimes, however, if a person is talking and they use a unique phrase or bring up a topic that makes me go “hmm”, whammo! My brain suddenly leaves the body, and while I’m still there in person giving off the appearance that I’m listening intently, I’m far, far away in my WIP. One small trigger word from you, and while my body may still be in front of you, Michelle has left the building.
I’m an alien.
I cannot write at home. Impossible. There’s laundry. Dishes. The dog needs to go potty. My kid needs a ride to Timbuktu. Whatever. So I must travel to another universe to get any kind of writing done. The most prolific place for me to go is a library, though I usually end up at Starbucks.
So . . . what kind of writerly monster are you?
I love crowds. The more people in one place, the better. Why? Because I’m the one eavesdropping on the conversation next to me. And it’s not just my ears that get a workout. I people watch too, mentally taking notes about interesting body language and unique individuals.
I’m a zombie.
Usually I’m a very good listener. Key word: usually. Sometimes, however, if a person is talking and they use a unique phrase or bring up a topic that makes me go “hmm”, whammo! My brain suddenly leaves the body, and while I’m still there in person giving off the appearance that I’m listening intently, I’m far, far away in my WIP. One small trigger word from you, and while my body may still be in front of you, Michelle has left the building.
I’m an alien.
I cannot write at home. Impossible. There’s laundry. Dishes. The dog needs to go potty. My kid needs a ride to Timbuktu. Whatever. So I must travel to another universe to get any kind of writing done. The most prolific place for me to go is a library, though I usually end up at Starbucks.
So . . . what kind of writerly monster are you?