I wanted to use a different word, really I did. But nothing seemed to fit so well.
Okay. I admit it. Maybe writeaholism isn’t in the dictionary, but it should be. No other word describes my addiction to writing so concisely.
It was like…like…like a chocoholic deprived of chocolate for months, suddenly coming across a Dove bar hidden away in the back of the cupboard. One bite, and bam, all those old wonderful feelings of satisfaction and joy and, well, euphoria came flooding back.
That was what my morning was like.
Because today, for the first time in over a month, I wrote. Really wrote.
Not a blog. Not a note. Not random thoughts on a piece of paper intended to allow my creativity to flow.
I wrote the beginning of a screenplay. It felt wonderful! As I reached page 4 the sun burst through the clouds, energy began to course through my body, and birds in the trees outside my window broke out into song. Tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp.
You know, I’m sometimes rather stupid. I know what is good for me, and what is bad. For example, I know I should get 8 hours of sleep every night and I am allergic to milk. Yet, I often stay up too late, and sometimes I eat pizza.
To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure if it is purely stupidity or simply a bad case of stubbornness. Deep down inside I am aware of the presence of a belief that if I try really hard, I should be strong enough to overcome anything, even allergies and sleep deprivation.
So I shouldn’t be surprised to have such a strong reaction to writing after my self-imposed hiatus. I learned years ago that the creative process of writing energized me, and while depriving myself made me become somewhat depressed.
I am a writeaholic. I am addicted to writing.
It is my chocolate.