Sometimes it´s really hard to write. It isn´t a matter of time, that´s something I really have a lot of. It´s rather about me. Sometimes it simply feels as if I would be constipated. I have my own thoughts, my own feelings, my own ideas in the way for the story and its characters.
As a writer I´m lending my body, my mind, my soul to the charachters´ of my story. I´m not me any more; I´m that little girl who was sold as a child, I´m that police officer who´s worried his wife will get to know about that other woman, I´m scared, I´m alone, I´m a man interested in other men, or a politician who´s corrupted.
It hurts. Sometimes I want myself back – my body, my own mind and my own feelings – I´m simply asking to get back my own life. But still, writing is my life. Living the life´s of my charachters´, feeling their pain, having their worries, their way of doing life… If I don´t live it, how would I be able to write it?
Someone once said that the difference between geniality and madness is subtle. I would say that the difference is the writer.