You walk through a museum, stopping to look closely at the pieces that appeal to you. But it is the other humans in the room who really intrigue. This man over here gets very close to each painting, turning his head this way and that so as to see every brush stroke. He squints his eyes and nods once when he has seen every inch of the work. He is satisfied, not in the art, but in his survey.
The young mother over there thought her daughter would cooperate for one hour while she took in some culture. She is acutely embarrassed that her three year old will not be quiet, but also aware that she should have known. For the tenth time she blows non-existent stray hair out of her face. It's obvious she is not used to failure. This is a blight on her record. The heels of her knee-high leather boots click noisily, drowning out her child's voice as they exit.
You are the last one awake in your house. It is late at night, so late that just one street light still burns on your road. It happens to be across from your yard so all shadows fall in your direction. The stillness is like a damp blanket, smothering all feeling, slowing all movement. And suddenly you are aware of how it must feel to be a murderer, a burglar, a stealer of souls.
This is what it feels like to be a writer. To think like one. If you know what I mean, I hope you'll share your experience. When I began writing fiction (most recently, just a few short months ago, to cut out all the creative writing I did in high school and college), I think I tapped into a part of my brain that had lain dormant. I opened a floodgate and lifted a lens to my eye through which I can see new worlds.