Sometimes I wonder how weird I must look while I’m writing.
I rock back and forth in my chair.
I shift my position so I’m cross-legged, sitting on my feet, gathering my knees up to my chest, all within a handful of minutes.
I write frantically, hunched over my desk.
I lean back, sitting straight, writing slowly.
I stop writing entirely to draw circles and weird sketchy faces in the margins of my notebook.
I take long, slow, loud breaths, like I’m trying to calm down, or I’m pacing myself for a jog, while I try to get out the dozens of sentences screaming in my head all at once.
I whip out my phone and check Twitter, even though I’m obviously mid-paragraph, sometimes mid-sentence.
I chew on my pen and stair out the window, watching raindrops hit the road, or sometimes absolutely nothing at all.
I do a bunch of other strange little habits that I don’t even notice, because my brain is somewhere else entirely, and I’m no longer aware of what my body is up to.
Basically, I’m glad it’s usually just the dog in the room with me, snoring on the floor; anyone else probably wouldn’t be able to keep from asking what the heck is wrong with me.