I am what I write.

I think I channel the characters I write about in my stories. For me, writing is visualization and then description. I see it all in my head, with amazing detail, dust motes sparkling in the beams of sunlight, leaves being stirred into restless circles by fitful wind... I put myself inside the head of my characters and think about how they would feel, how they would react, what they would do or say... and they sort of take over the story.

But this process, this intense immersion into the scene, the smells, the sensations, the thoughts, the feelings... It makes me lose myself. I take on the personalities of my characters. I need to be careful. It can get out of control. I must take time to step away, to open my eyes and look around, to remember who I really am.

And I must avoid writing about characters too angry, too crazy, too violent... their thinking leaks in, contaminates my own. When I wrote about Skitty, I started to think about how one would go about hiding bodies.

For the last week, I have been profoundly sad, slow, tired, dull... I started to blame the mythical "sub drop" because the first hints of this malaise crept up over me immediately after some intense play with Master. (Though I have never had any kind of "drop" before.) I wanted to blame work, or the weather or anything but in reality, on Saturday morning I had forced myself to pick up an old story, a sweet story about recovery from deep depression brought on by past traumas... my publisher had sent it back, wanted me to explore this recovery, give it a more realistic time frame.

So I have been there with this character. Dragging her out of the darkness, but in order to do it, I had to go there too. It has been a struggle, voluntarily stepping out of the light, facing her monsters with her and dragging her (and myself as well) back toward the world of the living. And as I do this, I have been sooooo fucking tired, weak... I find myself giving up on things too easily, work, chores, focus on writing. I come home... all plans to set the timer for an hour and get some work done, forgotten, discarded, and just sit and stare at the television.

We are almost back, the door is about to open for her, but for now, I find my eyes filling with tears, my smiles lost somewhere deep inside. After this I think I need to go back to Junie, a cute little obsessive house cleaner and eager masochist. This place could use a little more Junie.