I've been writing all day today - working on my novel.
Time goes into hyper drive when I'm writing. Hours pass in minutes - sometimes faster.
I sat down this morning with the intention of working until noon and the next thing I knew I had to turn on the light to see my keyboard.
I'm sure I did things other than write between dawn and dusk but memory of it escapes me. Today the real stuff, the important stuff, was how the characters in my book were dealing with the latest obstacles that had befallen them. Their lives, and therefore mine, took place in fields of winter wheat, abandoned houses, and church rectories. The office space around me might as well not have existed.
When the day disappears the way today has - eight hours gone by in the span of forty minutes - I find myself wondering if I have made the mental shift that shaman, yogis, and wizards achieve. The shift into transcendentalism that allows those learned people to see life for the dream that it really is. The realization that time is a farce.
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