There’s a theory that we’re all addicted to something, whether it be food, drugs, alcohol, sex, work, attention, whatever.
These days it’s writing for me. There were years that I pushed writing away. I was bone dry for any inspiration. Yes, I was a teetotaler.
But now I have fallen completely off the wagon. I’m compelled to write to the point where everything else suffers. On my desk, there is an unopened jury duty notice, overdue car lease paperwork. Neglected deadlines whirr past me. Most days I’m in my pajamas til well past noon. My dogs desperately need a bath. My cats are shedding, puking up hairballs all over the carpet. Dust accumulates on every surface of the house, giant dustbunnies roll past me like tumbleweeds (okay so I’m exaggerating – creative license here.) but I don’t care. I’m a junkie.
And when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. Standing in line at the post office, I’m narrating it in my head she stood in line, pensive, shifting from one foot to the other, when suddenly the clerk called her number… Memories flood my mind as I’m driving, showering… dialogue runs through my head constantly. It’s disgusting. My chipped fingernails from constant typing, as obvious as meth sores. Everyone knows…
The phone rings, unanswered.
The first step is admitting I have a problem….