Writers are strange. Millions of thoughts and ideas fly through the mind at the speed of light flexing their wings, showing you their prowess, and ability. When you engage one in a conversation, deep down, you wish you hadn't. Why?
Distracted. Thinking that much, that hard, you wonder if they even heard you. If they did realize they were in a conversation, why was that their answer?
Unavailable. That writer who used to be your friend, is no longer taking calls or going out with you. It's nothing personal, they've mentally checked out of life outside the story. Just keep calling. One day they'll realize it's been three days since they last went to bed.
No Longer The Conversationalist. Writers use words. Correction: Writers use up all of their words. And yours too. There is a quota/per capita/daily allotment of words given to people. Writers use that up completely. Then they have another cup of coffee, and use some more. The person who used to be the winning conversationalist with their reservation's held at the Algonquin every Friday night, is now the stuttering fool with very little to say that's remarkable. Give them a piece of paper however and you have a five-thousand word dissertation on why four-legged stools were the wave of the future over the three-legged kind. The brain hasn't gone soft, the medium has changed. We are no longer comedians, we're the brain-to-paper sort now.
Over All Impact. We try really hard to integrate back into society as if nothing happened during the last couple of years trapped in one room with a glowing rectangle and empty coffee cups. We really do care and miss the loved ones who have persisted in waiting by our door, called on the phone, and reminded us showers were in order. While I can summon up an apology for our behavior, I won't. Because my break is almost over and I'm about to do it all over again.