I was writing an intensely emotional scene tonight when my 17-year old tried to get my attention. I don't know how many times he called me. When I did finally respond he said "Never mind." But I wouldn't let him get away that easily. My concentration was broken.
Reading takes us into another world. So does writing. I imagine my characters before me. I "hear" their voices. I picture the world they see through their eyes.
Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of writing a novel, I wonder why the rest of the world is oblivious to a world in which I am totally engrossed. The anger. The grief. The joy. They're all so real to me. Why can't anyone else see them?
Which is one reason why it is such a wonderful thing to hold my printed book in my hands. Finally, others will see and feel what I have seen and felt all along.
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