If that doesn’t make you nervous, it should.
I don’t talk about writing because I’m not writing. Also, I’ve become one of those writers who generally feels that talking about writing is boring as shit. Actually, through the years, I’ve laughed during a lot more conversations about shit than about writing. But I digress.
Certainly I think about writing. The other day, while I was in my car, I heard a song that reminded me of a character in my first (unpublished) novel. I thought of him all the way home, and sporadically a few times afterward.
Which brings me to another subject boring to many of us: other people’s dreams. I guess because he stayed at the edges of my waking thoughts, this morning just before I woke up, he and four other of those characters came to me as if to show me how their lives had turned out after the final page I typed (and edited) so many years ago. It was lovely and comforting to see them, to think of their lives as they continued somewhere deep in my subconscious.
I miss them all.