This past week has been pretty…insane, perhaps? I took a break from writing so that I could live in the real world for a bit, and well, I’m not sure how that worked out for me. Maybe it’s just me, but as a writer, sometimes I feel like I’m not even living my life. I’ll get into an argument with my best friend or something and halfway through, I’ll already be coming up with a story line and my interest in the situation is immediately gone. By that point, I’m creating characters and I’m imagining what it would like on screen. Sometimes I feel like I’m using everything around me as a prop. I’m not sure if that’s weird or not, but it sure does bug a few people. Here’s the thing though, I kind of use myself as a prop. I turn myself into a character. I’ve been blessed with empathy. I say blessed because I find it to be really amazing that no matter who someone is or what they’ve been through, I can always feel their pain. So when it’s my own pain or happiness or confusion or bewilderment, it’s on level 10. It’s either really high or really low, and most of the time, it’s really high. I use myself and my emotions as material, and that’s fine, but sometimes I wonder if I’m feeling them for myself or feeling to write. So, I took a break. During this break, I attempted to write journals daily. I already do write journals, but everything I write gets written on the computer. I decided to do it the old-fashioned way, the normal way, and I failed miserably. I hate actually writing. Am I a fake, wanna-be writer? Because my hand started cramping after a few minutes, my thought process is much quicker than my writing speed so I kept making mistakes, I kept forgetting what I was talking about, it was just bad. So I went back to writing on my laptop, and now, I’m on my phone. I’m not sure how I feel about failing at writing. My sister told me that I should practice daily, and I think she’s right. Technology has become a crutch, and one day, I won’t have my laptop or cellphone. In any case, I’ve come back home (figuratively). I refrained from writing stories, but I jotted all the ideas I had along the way. I refrained from reading other peoples blogs because for some reason, seeing other people write makes me want to write. Am I the only one? So, I stopped, and I didn’t like it. I felt kind of empty. I felt bored. I wanted to talk to myself in my creative space, I wanted to create people and lives and great romances or deaths, but I couldn’t. I’ll take that back, I could have, but I chose not to. I needed to touch base with my life again. Sometimes I feel like I’m not living it, I’m just writing it. They say writers are all crazy, and while I’ve known that I’ve always been a little loopy, the realization that I’m somewhat absent kind of scared me. I don’t want to be here, but not here. I want to be everywhere and really be there. Yesterday, I went to the movies with my family, and it was great. We saw Divergent and I must say, I really enjoyed being around them. I wasn’t in my phone editing, reading, or trying to kill myself for being too cheesy in a story or poem. I was just hanging out and it felt like I belonged there. Like I should have been there with them all along. It’s been a week since I last worked on anything, and it has felt like a lifetime. Just now as I was typing that, I was going to say two weeks. Then I told myself to stop being dramatic. So, one long week of me being the only character I worked on. While I enjoyed just living, I missed writing. I missed being in that zone, getting the right word in the perfect sentence, I missed being stuck in a story because my own character stumped me. This is what I love, this is what I do. Does anyone else have trouble with this or am I just crazy?