Writing addict

I'm addicted to writing. To memoir. To story. To memorializing my life.

It's not practical. It's not pragmatic. It's at times problematic.

There's no time, but I create it out of thin air. 5 am. Sometimes 4 am. If I was a night owl, I'd probably write all night.

Like now, I have to get ready for work soon. I have court calendar then a busy day in the office. So it doesn't make sense that I'm putting pen to page (well fingers to keys) right now. I'm compelled. 

Cut to scene of JEM downing expresso then furiously writing. 

I need to see myself on the page. Is it that I'm scared that I don't exist without my words? 

At times, I feel like I'm made out of air and maybe I'll blow away. Life is all an illusion. My words ground me. They make me real. I can see myself. Finally.

At times, it feels like a curse. Is there such a thing as a linguistic vampire (a writer with fangs putting blood on the page)? My own blood. There are days I want to come home from work and sleep. But there's more work to do. Always more writing. 

I suppose it's how you look at it. So let's reframe. Perhaps it is a blessing. My cup is full. I'm here doing what I love. Just writing.