And I am going mad.
Absolutely completely 100% mad.
I was lamenting about my sad state of affairs to my ever understanding mother as I drove to college.
"I just don't know what to do. I'm not writing. What am I doing? I can't do this!"
My mom sighed. "Elizabeth*, it's been three days."
Yes. Three days with no story. No word goal to reach. Just me pushing forward on an outline that is being completely obstinate.
I realized my problem this morning.
"Mom?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the road.
"What is it?"
"I think I'm an addict."
That's the only way to describe it. It is an addiction. It takes over everything; every area of your life. It grips you and it won't let go. Your mind makes stories every moment of the day, and your hands itch to write them down. Everyone is a character. The person sitting behind you? He's a knight, for sure. The two people who you pass by every day that are always cutting up? They're thieves. The girl with the mussy, bright red hair? She's a heroine, no doubts.
Every place you go becomes a setting. Everything that doesn't make sense, every loose end, your imagination picks it up and runs wild with it, weaving stories.
Because everyday, I am not writing new words.
I'm holding them inside.
And it is my madness.
But I thought as I drove along this morning.
"There's worse things to be addicted to, you know."
My mom nodded. "I suppose."
I am addicted to creating words and stories that will last long after I am dead and gone.
This is a good addiction.