A week or so ago, I wrote myself a note containing a single word: writaholic. At the time, I had been reflecting on how obsessed I’ve become about writing. The truth of the matter is that I could write every day for most of the day and enjoy almost every minute of it. Sometimes, in fact, I feel the words churning inside me, clamouring for release.
While out walking, I craft sentences to describe something I’ve seen. While driving I plot some twist or turn in my stories. While washing the dishes or gardening or standing in the shower, I think of changes required to further polish a chapter. When I’m not thinking or working directly on writing, I’m devising a new blog post or a way to gain further insights from the historical fiction survey I’ve recently completed or I’m musing on how to connect with others in the field of historical fiction or in the more general field of publishing. And on and on it goes.
I haven’t been writing that long – about four years now – and I wonder if it will always be this way or whether I will eventually settle into a less compulsive pattern. If you have any wisdom to share, I would be grateful.
Note: the photo was taken in Japan. The tiny twists of paper represent people’s wishes for good fortune.