Writing breeds schizophrenia. You see, I’m hearing voices. There are people inside my head. People who haven’t been invented yet, but are screaming at me to put them on a page, draw a verbal picture of them, breath life into their dialog, and set them free.
Writing is a drug. If I don’t get my fix today, I’m going to do something desperate. Like eat a box of Thin Mints. Or take a nap. Because if I can’t get these words out, I have to shut them up somehow. They seem to like cookies. And dreams.
I know why addicts can’t hold down a job. They can’t focus on anything but the next hit, the next high. At least my high is cheaper.
Tap a vein and hold on tight. I’ll make you feel good tonight.