It always surprises me how much can go to the way side when
the writing bug really hits hard. I can forget to do the most basic of things,
like eat or sleep. I’ll get sucked in so hard and so deep that suddenly the sun
is down and I’d only just woken up. My days get all burled together into one
black and white adventure. My hands cramp up from holding the pencil too long
and the side of my pinky is coated with lead dust, smearing the pages.
Despite all the physical discomforts from prolonged writing
binges, I come out of the zone feeling so much better then I went in. Sure, my
back and bum are telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I over did it. But the
bliss I get over shadows all of that. Yeah, I haven’t slept in who knows how
long; however, I’m more rested then I have been in ages. So what if my body is
screaming at me to eat, it doesn’t matter when I feel filled to the brink.
When life just gets to be overwhelming and I’m pulling my
hair out, all I need to do is pick up a story and write. The times when Bells
is in a fit and the Puffet is screaming in my ear I turn on a show, place the
baby in the a jumper and hide away in the land of Mother Goose for just a few
moments and come out again ready to tackle the next poopy diaper and splat of
milk on the floor.
I don’t know why this happens and honestly at this point, I
really don’t care. It’s an escape, a release, a much needed vacation without
the cost or jet lag.
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