This afternoon the Wife and I attended a Couples Kumbayah reunion. Nearly all of the couples from the three day workshop in October returned for a six hour session. Good seeing the results of declarations couples made together three months ago.

Mental preparations for the reunion and yesterday’s entry really got me thinking about how much energy I invest in writing versus other activities. I use the word energy because that more accurately reflects the sheer effort funneled towards it; speaking in terms of time alone limits the consideration too narrowly. Writing takes more than time.

It takes focused energy, a very engrossing kind, whose lure is powerful enough to disappear within any moment of the day. In broad terms, it merely takes a moment of yielding to the imagination. One can develop or explore scenes far away from a computer or typewriter. And once a writer retreats to that place, time ceases to matter. The act runs as long as the writer stokes the fires.

Perhaps on the surface this may not appear problematic; it may not even be a bad thing. A fertile imagination and storytelling are blood sisters. Depending on the context, however, if I allow those same diversions to unseat me from the moment away from the screen, or if they prevent me from experiencing what the hell is actually happening around me, then writing becomes a distraction. I miss out on life.

How often does this mental disappearing act happen? I’m not even sure, though often enough for the Wife to catch me at it.

And that in itself, is very telling…