I think I’ve fallen in love with a story inside me in the same way I would have fallen in love with a person.
I hardly eat, hardly sleep. The story is all I can think about. It’s all I want to think about, making everything else hazy, faraway and annoying. Nothing else needs to exist for me right now, it’s just me and this.
And even though I have tons of writing to do that would actually be useful to my life: blogs, articles, social media posts to promote my latest book, I’m not doing it. Instead I’m working on this story that nobody is ever gonna read.
Working on this is all I want to spend my time on: I just want to wander around my house with my head phones in, listening to music, drawing sentences out of my head and onto the paper, looking in the distance as the images and the plot lines reveal themselves to me.
I honestly feel manic.
Everything else passes me by, I’ve lost hours and hours the last week, engrossed in my own mind and a Word document. I’ve sat down multiple times, blink and suddenly it’s night. I don’t want to leave my house, but I do because people expect me and because at least the yoga classes I take bring me back to my body for a little bit. I don’t want to sleep at night, but I still go to bed because I have to.Once I’m under the covers the story is all I think about, until I eventually get so tired I do sleep. I have a headache from not eating, from the caffeine, from not being able to tear myself away from the screen and the story.
It’s not a story to publish, it’s not a story that’s ever gonna go anywhere, but I have to write it anyway.
I think the only way to make this go away is to write it.
And that’s fine with me, I can do that.
But if this is it? If this is the first sign my brain is taking the plunge into fiction, and if this is how it’s going to be all the time, if this is how I’m going to feel with every story, if they are all going to be dragging themselves out of me, into the real world through of my fingers?
Then I’ve got a huge fucking problem.
