…Look out. A writer who’s not writing is in serious trouble.
Like any type of artist, we writers are unstable creatures. We have to write. For us, our passion is not so much a choice as an imperative.
I don’t have a therapist; I have writing. Any day I don’t write is a bad day. The longer I go without writing, the crazier I become–and I don’t mean in the good way. I cease to function. The least amount of stress overwhelms me completely. And so begins the downward spiral of self-loathing, choking despair, and all-around depression.
Then (eventually) I write. And suddenly the world is once more filled with rainbow-farting unicorns.
So, why do we ever stop? I can’t really answer that. Sometimes it’s stress. Sometimes writer’s block, if you believe in that sort of thing. Sometimes we just let life–family dramas, or the day job, or our own insecurities and fears–get in our way.
My grandmother often tells me I can stop breathing easier than I can stop writing. Maybe she’s right. (It’s been known to happen.) But we all practice holding our breath, at some point. And sometimes we simply forget to breathe.
…Or maybe that’s just me.
So while I have writer’s block on my current rough novel draft, I’m still writing. I have this blog. All of you are the audience for what passes as my sanity. Now isn’t that a scary thought?