Are You Addicted to Writing Too?

I can’t stop but wouldn’t if I could.

I’m addicted to writing.

Thinking, ruminating, planning, researching, conceptualizing, starting, quitting, powering through — every goddamn part of it.

I’m addicted to writing.

“There are worse things to be addicted to”, they say. Though it wasn’t always the case. I used to be addicted to weed, gambling, and my own reflection.

I’m addicted to writing.

Talking, tweeting, writing about writing. Critiquing, praising, fighting about writing.

I’m addicted to writing.

But not just writing. I read like a writer — punctuation, structure, intention — greedily slurping up each inky drop. I can’t get enough of these little symbols; my eyes tracing the tapestry’s weave.

I’m addicted to writing.

But not just writing: the succulent ping of a notification, the validation from an unknowable avatar, claps, comments, money — it grinds my expectations into polished steel.

I’m addicted to writing.

To that hollow feeling of success. The one that grows more empty with each successive victory, driving me to pour more of my soul into soon-to-be-forgotten pages — I love it.

I’m addicted to writing.

Don’t forget the words — prosaic words, lyrical words, serpentine, anodyne, mystical words. Learn them for the pleasure of knowing then omit the majority.

I’m addicted to writing.

Who would’ve thought letting go would become easier and easier? It is the process that drives me, while finishing is often unbearable. No, finishing is impossible.

Finishing is impossible.

Finishing is…