Life has a remarkable way of derailing our best plans, routines, and schemes.
I haven’t written in thirteen days. That feels like a chasmed eternity. Two years ago that would have meant nothing. Even though writing has been a passion of mine since pre-pubescence, I haven’t adopted the routines of writing until last year. That is when I embraced the kinetic madness of following this throbbing passion. Just read back along my blog entries and you’ll see that fact threaded in them.
But, now it has been thirteen days since I have last written anything of length or substance. The itch is intolerable, demanding in its persistence and growing putrid in its expanding and deepening presence. Two years ago I would have convinced myself that the time to pursue my writing passion and dream wasn’t opportune. That my life was filled to the rim with a demanding career and equally demanding children. But, I set that aside last year and because of that I’ve launched myself into writing – like some exuberant cliff diver – I can’t detach myself from it. I am hooked. I am addicted. It is a necessity. An itch that must be scratched with words etching across a screen, paper, napkin, or whatever flat surface begs to be filled.
Regardless of life’s darkness, turns, derailments, or disappointments; this itch demands to be scratched. Otherwise a sickly madness creeps along my gray matter, incessant and plaguing, until I release the pressure with words written. Not just spoken, that isn’t enough. NO. A writer writes because they are compelled to do so. They write because not to write would entertain madness, passivity, and dullness.
I write to release the pressure building in my brain like an old steam engine throbbing under its pressure. I must scratch the itch or blow.
Thanks for watching the slow release and the itch that has just been scratched. My innerworld is safe once again from my creeping insanity.