Things That Bang

Writing requires rigor and discipline. It’s a machine that needs to churned, kept lubricated and fresh. If the momentum is lost then much like sex it takes effort to get back in the mood to write, to get the characters back in their mood to be who they have to be and do what they have to do. And much like the dried up juices of a clit ignored sometimes the pleasure of writing disappears but much like the fake sex and fake orgasm we go on writing.
The churning becomes mechanical, the enchantment dies and the characters are left in limbo- abandoned by the cruel god. It’s becomes a bleak duty performed but not loved.

The outside world beckons and love for the written word dims. A silent death happens and someone somewhere never gets to read what could have been the best read ever.

Sex I love as much as I love to write. It comes easy to do both – I was born that way but one is an act that lasts a few moments stretched to sensual eternity, the other a love harder than any other relationship I have yet experienced. It demands complete servitude, disownment of all that isn’t related to the world I create in my mind and on the laptop screen.

The passion of writing leaves me drained. It sucks me in like a subtle vampire, addicted to the drawing of blood, of emotions and all that is me. Spilled on the paper – the hatred, the pity, the love and the cruelty that isn’t me.
I sit back and read all that is written. Chapter 1, Chapter 2 – oh! She is such a bitch. How could she be like this? He be such a victim?

I write ferociously, they act all nasty and their emotions become mine. The book in progress lives through my days and nights, haunts my dreams demanding answers, their needs driving me over the bend.

Write they tell me. Don’t stop, don’t raise your head, don’t look at that child demanding your attention. We need you and you need us. We are one, write and live through us, the real world is just an illusion.
Discipline and rigor become things of past. Like other writers I become a literary nymphomaniac wanting more than possible, the sickness eats from within, the anti social addicted monster raises its beastly head demanding more blood than ever before.

Insanity seems like a blessed relief however its close but no cigar. The need for completion isn’t the mission but the need to stay in the moment of intense concentration, of heightened emotional being that keeps me spellbound and entrapped in those painful moments that may possibly stretch months to years.

Break the link and its an addiction easily forgotten. Does that make me a fickle writer or just human being needing to recuperate before I once again lose myslef in a passion that lives through others.