Dear anyone I offend while staring off into space,
It’s not you. You don’t have mustard on your shirt. Your skirt’s not tucked into your tights. You don’t have a booger hanging out of your nose … at least not that I can see from here.
I’m looking in your direction but I’m not looking at you. (Well, yeah, I am. But not in the sense that I see you. Or that I’d recognize if you started motioning to me.)
See, here in my brain, I’m making characters talk and act out scenes. There’s a world I’m creating. When writers do that from scratch it takes so much brainpower that other bodily functions, like the ability to move the eyes or head, cease functioning.
It works great for us writers. Not so great for you.
Accept my most sincere apologies.