Writing is an addiction. You’re pulling together words to create a world that a few seconds ago never existed. It turns you into a god. You control the existence of these characters and their universe. You get addicted to the power. Time ticks by without consequence.
The 9-5 job that helps supply the addiction becomes more difficult to sit through. You chomp at the bit, watching the clock… just waiting for your next fix.
You start to question why you do anything beyond writing. Hobbies lose their fun, friends and family fall to the shadows. You’re working on a time limit. You can only write when the drive is present and if you squander your time you’re left in hopeless despair once the drive is gone. The things you could have done with that drive if only they’d left you alone.
Writing turns me into a horrible person; selfish and single minded. I have to forcibly stop myself from thinking “why am I wasting my time going out, cleaning, preparing a wedding… I should count myself lucky to have someone that understands my hermitage. But as I retreat to rule the universe of the written word, he becomes still, complacent, and depressed. I don’t feel pity for him – or anyone for that matter.
I pity the people I write for. Left at my mercy, their lives hang in the balance of my mood that day. I do not grant them peace, for I BECOME the universe and shape it as the universe I see around me. There is pain, and loss, and hope, and disappointment… but there is also love, and tenderness. I grant them a moment of calm before the storm picks up again.