What writing is to me

I’m a firm believer in doing what makes you happy. Everything I do, from work to play, need to benefit me in some way. The good need to outweigh the bad, which is why I go to the dentist or go to work even with a terrible headache. Or cook when I’m tired.

But then there is the curious case of writing. Writing, oh man, writing is within this way of thinking ruining my life. Writing is a source of stress, anxiety, guilt, tears and fights between me and my fiancee. There are good things too, joy, pride, a sense of accomplishment. But if I didn’t have the absolute compulsion to write, I should within my philosophy, feel pressured to stop. Writing makes me happy, but it also makes me miserable.

I just couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I’ve always been writing and I *am* always writing. I can come home from work at five o’clock in the afternoon and feel like getting at least 1000 words done before I can sleep. I can write among people, in the car, on the bus, outside, inside, in the morning and in the night. By hand, on my laptop or lately on my phone. I’m a writer and that’s something that was chosen for me. Not something I chose for myself.

And that’s what writing is to me. It’s not just something I do for fun, or what I hope to do for living in the future. Writing is an integral part of me, it sticks to my body like a second skin and I doubt I will ever be able to stop. And to tell the truth, I don’t ever want to stop either. Sometimes I just need a reminder.

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On the subject of being a scatterbrained writer in a relationship

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Well, I guess you might say that we’ve had our fair share of arguments because of my writing. I sometimes get so easily distracted by the words and phrases flying out of my fingertips like sparks.

And we might fight because I’m not really present. I’m somewhere else entirely. Not at the kitchen table but rather wondering if it is possible for somebody with broken ribs to climb down a ladder while carrying a medium sized dog. Or how I’m going to get my lovers from the sofa to the bed, and if they should take their clothes off now rather than later.

And we might fight because I’m never really free. Because my fingers are always flying over letters or over the paper with a pen in my hand and I’m sorry. There is no excuse for my fidgeting at the sofa or when she want to cuddle. I just thought of a good ending, or a good sentence or even a terribly great idea that I need to write down, now, now, now, now.

I need to calm down. Sometimes I get obsessed but I need to remind myself that first and foremost, I am not a writer, but hers. Writing have to take the backseat some days. She is so patient with me, she is used to me looking up at her, listening to her even as my fingers never stop dancing over the keyboard. I need to relearn being polite. I need to learn to be present again. To be less distracted.

Sometimes I wonder why they stay with us at all, the men and women unfortunate enough to fall for us people wrecked and possessed by multiple muses.