The mind of the writer is a haunted place, filled with wild beasts and psychopathic characters and alter egos; a schizophrenic or two; maybe even some criminal mastermind. He can think beyond the limits of a normal man. He thinks in metaphors, he understands poetry and beauty. Science and math are his worst enemies and symmetry, uniformity as unbearable to him as they are paramount for architects.
He processes every flake of information with utmost intensity and every description of everything is heartfelt; the workings of his brain as intricate as fierce; his thoughts as wondrous as scary.
The writer is a poor, tormented creature, carrying the weight of soul-crushing inadequacy that seems to be the onus of being an artist and not everyone can understand him. His believes are often dismissed as being too ambitious, or too plain. He talks about building red-brick castles when people talk about skyscrapers. He demands change for that one man falling asleep hungry at the corner of his street when people talk about changing lifestyles. He asks for love when people covet riches.
Is it wrong of us, then, to fall head over heels for someone who shows us a little sympathy, a little affection, a little understanding? Look at poor Sylvia Plath who couldn’t tolerate her husband’s disloyalty. We are all so easily manipulated, it’s pathetic.
My point in all this is only that if you come across a creature huddled in the corner scribbling in a notebook, be kind, be patient. He is living a lot more lives in his head than you can ever imagine.