When you're writing there's a deep, deep level of concentration way below your normal self. This strange voice, these strange sentences come out of you.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing is mysterious; you don't ever truly know where it is coming from, so don't edit yourself line by line. Don't get in your own way. Whatever is truly there at the core, that is your voice.
When you write, it's just a much more crystalline, compressed version of the voice you think with - though not the one you speak with. I think your writing voice is your laser-guided missile. It's the poetry part of you.
The theory of isolation of certain tasks in certain hemispheres of the brain suggests I shouldn't even be able to speak, never mind write.
Writing requires an intense inner focus, and sometimes you need to express outward, physically or socially.
Writing is a way of drifting within my own mind: almost a solitary process, so to speak.
A lot of writing takes place in the subconscious, and it's bound to have an effect.
I write as if I were drunk. It is a process of intuition rather than placing myself above my story like a puppeteer pulling strings. For me, it's a scary, chaotic process over which I have little control. Words demand other words, characters resist me.
You know that something is really well written when you have to think so little about the words that are coming out of your mouth, and you're able to dwell in your own headspace to get there.
Sometimes you find your voice by trying to write like people, and sometimes you find it by trying to write unlike people.
While you're writing, you can't concentrate nearly as well on what the speaker is saying.