This feeling’s familiar. The feeling of needing to write when it’s well past midnight because, even if you try to go to sleep, to be well-rested in the morning to really attack your writing with a clear brain, the idea that’s brewing in your head won’t let you settle until it’s down on paper. The feeling that you’re writing not because you’ve told yourself you have to or because you’re pushing yourself to make a deadline, but because you want to. The feeling that because your body needs to get it out, and you know you’re not one to disagree. The feeling of something coming alive in such a way that you’re no longer a creator, a thinker, a germinator of plot, but rather a vehicle for an honest truth, a fact that already has a face, to become immortalized in twenty-six letters of varying arrangements. The feeling of being a writer, and feeling worthy of using such a grandiose title.
I know this feeling. And goddamn, have I missed it.
M
