Where Time has Little Meaning

SoulI’ve always been a spiritual person. I meditate daily; about life and the Universe, which I ultimately worship. Writing, however, is its own type of meditation, where time and place make little sense. I remember being able to start a particular album or movie and sit and write, not paying attention to any of my other senses. When it got very good, I could write twenty or thirty pages worth of writing in a few hours.

I was lost in my own mind, in my hall of windows, if you will, and simply streaming out of my fingertips what I had been seeing within them. At such times, what I was listening to or watching with my outside body had little meaning. It didn’t make any impact on the subject; quite the opposite.

Personally, I think the best time to write is when I keep my body occupied with something else so my mind is free to create. To see with my inner eyes clearly, I need to find them something else to look at. To hear with my inner ears, something to listen to. Sometimes, I’ve created entire stories by playing a repetitive puzzle game on the computer or a game system. I think that has to do with turning off all the parts of my mind other than the part that needs to channel the creative path.

Mini cassette players (and now, digital recorders) are a must for me. It allows me not to be concerned with my hands when the story is demanding all the attention and focus possible on the very simple act of creation. Those are the days when distraction of the outer self is most important, so that I can tap into that inner sanctum of imagination without distraction. My muse is a jealous creature; my existence in the outside world a travesty to her.

That is the place where time has no meaning. That is where the very best writing comes from. Within, the with-out distracted, my mind free to create.

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