It is about self.
Every morning when I write, I lose myself. Time blurs by. I forget about the world.
For this small stretch of time, I am not tethered to people and things and responsibilities. I do not think about the overflowing inbox, the parties I must plan, the appointments I must make and get to. I do not think about the mistakes I have made, the disappointments I have suffered, the worries I have.
For this small stretch of time, I am just Aidan. Not a mother. Not a wife. Not a writer. Not a daughter. Not a sister. Just me.
Does this make any sense? That by forgetting the world, I am most fundamentally myself? Is there a self without world?
Who are you without the world?
My characters sit on a small patch of grass in Central Park and ponder this. It is just the kind of question they love. A question that echoes without answer. A question that bends the mind and revs the body and brings them back to the seminar rooms at Yale. They are not afraid of these questions, of asking them, of feeling them.
My characters? They are my favorite kind of people. Deeply, wonderfully flawed. In love with life. Struggling, stumbling, seeking, celebrating. That's why it's such a privilege to hang out with them each morning.
Who are you without the world? Without your responsibilities and your relationships? Are there times when you lose yourself, feel most like yourself? Does the concept of self without world make any sense to you?