Another’s ear

This is what a writer hears with. We don’t always listen with our own ear and thought processes, but with a curiosity of some character we’ve been creating or one that has been waiting to be created and the conversation just heard has triggered it into being. Or something on the news. Some argument we’ve been part of or simply a running wild of our imagination.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but words are needed to capture the emotional impact; to give voice. This phrasing has been running through my mind all day. I’m working on my drawing skills, more like reawaking them, and realizing they need the concentration and dedication that I give easily to my written words. The freedom I give my words.

Again, more through another view than my own. Maybe not the drawing. Funny, I never thought that part of me was more me than my words. Most of my writing is me, but there are times when I am putting myself into a different persona, a fictional character made from snatches of real people. Real people that are so different than me. I can’t portray them through my eyes and thoughts or they become me, but I am able to see their point of view. I can feel their reactions even when they make me uncomfortable.

Probably why I have so many arguments running in my head. I forget I’m not disagreeing with myself, not flipping on my beliefs, but creating a reflection of what’s outside of me.

Contrary to what some might think, writers can write about abuse, murder, conspiracies, horrors and not be any of these. What we’re able to do is recognize and translate. We have been known to use our writings to work out the questions…anger, hurt, joy, frustration, anything…that fly around and in us. It saves us from actual illegal actions, I believe. Same with journal writing; however, with stories we hope and allow others to be a part of our wanderings.

We’re constantly watching. Constantly questioning. Constantly going…what if; what next; who; how; why and then we play word chess and move you all around our creative board. The strange thing? Everything we write there is some piece of us included.

We are imagination given voice. I don’t know what’s scarier…a person who thinks like a serial killer in order to bring them to justice; the serial killer thinking on how they will kill someone; or the person who writes it fictionally. Maybe it’s the person who’s not quite sure if the monster in the closet is related to the monster under the bed because they know both are real, could be.

Some will call this being nosey. I can understand that, but believe me it’s unintentional and completely does not involve you…as you; your reality.

People watching. People listening. It’s what a writer does.

Side note….new story idea. The blackmailer is a writer because, of course, they’re watching and listening. Or…that widow with cats who was once married to a police detective, solutions via blackmail.

Writers, we never stop.

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