I read and write. I write and read. They go hand in hand for me. I tell stories. I make them up in my head. If you cross my path, I'll probably make up a story about you. That's how it works in my brain.
Right now I am standing on a Brooklyn street corner(ish) and the man in the plaid shirt is:
A member of the Muslim Brotherhood. He only joined because his older brother did. He hates spaghetti with a passion because it reminds him of the worms his brother forcefed him when he was four.
And so it goes...I do this for everyone.
That's writing and it is just a part of me. Has been since I could form a conscious thought.
I've written crappy poetry. Crappy short stories. Crappy plays. Crappy screenplays.
I've written some stuff I am proud of. But it's a small percentage.
Am I a good writer? Shit, I don't know. Read the Mavis Gallant journal excerpts in The New Yorker (with what looks like a Doctor Obama on the cover) and you will have an insight into how I think about writing.
I don't write because I'm trying to get somewhere (lies!) but because I have to write. (Both are true.)
Acting is parallel to and completely separate from my writing. One informs the other, but they are wholly separate endeavors.
If I didn't act, I would still write.
If I didn't write, I would still act.
I don't know where my ideas come from.
I like the idea of picking them like rotting fruit from the branches of the collective unconscious.
I also like the idea that I have a muse (somewhere) who feeds me all the good stuff. (Lots of food analogies, I must be hungry.)
I sit down. I open my computer. I put my headphones in my ears. I turn on music. I put my fingers on MacBook keyboard. (Outrageous product placement in hopes of free stuff! Apple, I'm talking to you.)
I try and write 1500 words a day (that's Monday thru Friday for me) and that's it. Thats me. Amber. Writer. Numbnut extraordinaire.
(take a bow)
(get off the street corner)
(@darkoverorg hope this clears things up and makes us even Steven on the cheating)