One of the blogs that I read is by a woman whose picture should be in the dictionary next to the word industrious. In this particular post, she’d stated something about the creative impulse and addictive behaviors.
I told her I could stop anytime I wanted.
Being polite, she only LOL’d a little.
But the real truth is that writing, esp. fiction writing, is like the very best drug ever. And I am a total junkie. I love, love, love the written word. The written world.
I like stringing together words in ways that nobody has thought of yet. I like knowing that I say something like, “… hints of honey and cream light…” and you see the dawn’s slow fingers caressing the window sheers.
It isn’t just my words that I am addicted to. Reading is the other side of the coin. I had the thought that maybe other folk’s words are like methadone – words that soothe in the absence of the true spike of writing your own stuff.
If that is so, then it’s the best methadone on the planet. So many words. So many worlds. In the right combination, words can bring understanding, peace, anger, love, grim acceptance, escape. They are the most amazing magic we are capable of working.