Imagination is bigger than the world.

After hours of writing, I look up and I realize I've been sitting in a semi-dark room with a fan blowing as white noise.

But that's not at all the way it felt to me.  In that quiet room, exciting things were happening, I was not in the dark, but in the light, not laying on my back, but fighting monsters.  I wasn't inside, I was outside in the world, doing big things, bigger things than I'll ever do in real life.  Exotic locations, alluring people, earth-shaking events, deep emotions.

Introversion?  Isolation?

It doesn't feel that way.  My characters aren't introverted (unless they are). I'm creating all kinds of characters, outgoing or not, old or young, male or female, boring or exciting, stupid or smart.  It doesn't have anything to do with what's going on outside my door.

I've never done these things, never known these types of people, so how can I be convincing?

Because they come from my imagination and the imagination is bigger than the world.

I don't know how this happens, but I can describe a person or an event that I've never experienced, never will experience, and yet it feels real to me.

Isolation incubates imagination, solitude breeds writing

It's been 18 days since I quit checking my sales, rankings, or reviews.  It feels like a big wall has suddenly sprung up between me and the world.  I still check social media, mostly Facebook, but that doesn't seem to be too distracting.

I'm living two lives right now. The inside and the outside, and they are equally real.  Time expands, and so does life.  Because to me, the imagination of what can be and should have been is as big as the real world.