We writers of different times write about experiences and imaginings of what those experiences might be like. Obviously we cannot step back or go forward in time and actually live in time periods we write about. I have never worn a bustier, but I have work a girdle. I have never wielded a wand, but I've seen Tinkerbell, I have never been wounded in battle, but I have been thrown from things, most recently a mower--yesterday. I carry my cell phone for emergencies. That's my foot in the image, that's the mower that went forward without me. I went immediately on strike and went in for emergency supplies--a Mike's Black Cherry Hard Lemonade.
Yesterday started badly. An orphan kitten I had been raising I found in the box, warm yet stiff. My immediate response was to attempt saving it, but my brain and experience told me it was only warm from the heating pad and that life had moved on. I only had the kitten in my care for a week. I know--again from experience that some make it, some don't. But still, sadness is mine.
When I write in my futuristic, adventure romances, I can tell of these feelings. They will be worn by other characters than I and a kitten or a mower, but the circumstances will be there. For example, I once felt compelled to climb a butte in Chugwater, Wyoming. Everyone else took a nap. I climbed and when I reached the top, remembered a couple of key things. I'm afraid of heights. I don't climb down as easy as I can go up. I looked around for another way down and gratefully found a wash that went to the bottom at a much more charitable angle. Eagerly, I bounded down it. Unfortunately, I also forgot that I can get more momentum forward than my feet can keep up with. (That's another tale.) More unfortunately I re-discovered it as I took a tumble and made it to the bottom with my jeans practically ripped from my body, a torn shirt, and grass in my hair. I walked on back into the campgrounds with my exposed self, clothes flopping, slightly limping, ignoring non-lethal blood flow, hoping everyone was still asleep. No one ever said a word to me so perhaps my hoping did work out. This scene ended up in one of my Proving Zone stories. A man came to in a sandy bush, in the dark, realizing he wasn't wearing his own clothes. His glasses were bent and hanging off his face.
Somewhere, my kitten will resurface in my writing. Later. When it isn't so raw.
Sometime, my toss from the mower will resurface. Later. When the bruising heals.
Another month has disappeared. Days seem to melt away whether you’re having fun or not. Whether you’re writing or not. And I’m not, writing that is. Why am I not writing? A four letter word. Pain. It should be in all caps. They say write what you know but most of what I know these days is that four letter word. I keep thinking of four letter adjectives to put with it but even I can’t stretch that to call it writing.