I put a comment up on Twitter that I realized was even more absolutely true after I saw it published in black and white. Writing has now officially become an addiction for me. I finished Dating A Saint and now have a whole new set of characters in my head demanding a story fix out of me.
Writing is truly all I want to do these days, but I have to go tend the rest of my life this week. It is a truth. I do. Hastily jotted down notes on paper napkins, ideas written in the notepads by my grading work, these are all I have to give to the new work for a while. But I find myself wondering when this happened. When did I suddenly become the writer I've been trying to become for--oh, I don't know--twenty or thirty years? I have no answer.
So I say to the story and the characters now rumbling around in my head, the one demanding I get up in the middle of the night and write it if necessary, please pull forward past the drive-thru window of my creative mind and stop. I'll be out there with all time and effort for you I can just as soon as I am able to get everything else done. I swear. Just please stop honking the horn for a little while. I made commitments to other things before I knew about you.
I keep seeing a man chiseling marble statues, another one bending metal with a blow torch, and sinister graphic novel heroes in my head. How am I am supposed to get any sleep with all that racket going on?