Should I admit it?

I resolved to take a break. I put my resolution in writing, so I would not weaken. I shared it with others. I was in control.

No alcoholic starts out as an alcoholic. She just has that first drink. Tastes good. Feels good. Then she has another, and another. Before long, it’s a habit, and the quantity increases. She’s kept awake at night with the longing. The drug addict is the same. Once she experiences that high, that rush, that elation, she is hooked. She convinces herself that she can stop at any time. But the reality is that once started, she frequently becomes addicted, and it’s hard to stop.

So, to you, I confess. I am an addict, but a recovering addict. Not to alcohol or drugs. I have an addiction to writing. I was determined to take a break, to wind down, to manage my time better, to sleep better. I would no longer create stories or poems in my head during the night, either lying awake or during half-sleep, brain buzzing like an electric current which I could not turn off.

In fact, I increased my other community involvements so I would compartmentalise my writing. It would be relegated to being just “one of my interests”.

Complete withdrawal did not last very long. Then … okay, I would just enter this ONE contest. Then I saw another, and another. I didn’t care about the outcome. I just wanted the pleasure of the experience. The “high” of writing. I wanted more, and more frequently.

Writing had been my lifetime dream. I had always dreamed of being a published author. Perhaps there is still time …. However, life, as always, got in the way, with multiple roles to juggle. 

I retired. Other responsibilities decreased. I got a dog. I became involved in volunteering. I did a little writing, and was published from time to time. Then I saw FanStory. Nervously I wrote a piece. People reviewed favourably. I wrote another, then another. I was hooked.

For a little over two years now I have observed the world around me with fresh eyes, noticing the freshness, complexity, and magnificent beauty of nature, its anger and terror, and its eternal qualities.

I have looked within, trying to see myself and make sense of who I was and who I have become, and saw my inner being. I came to terms with my past, thanks to the catharsis of writing.

I have looked at my own birth family, all geographically distant, and gained a new perspective of their journey through life.

I look at my own children and grandchildren, appreciating the joys they give me, and coming to a new awareness of how much they make me think, and appreciate life experiences and memories.

They make me realise how good it is to be alive. Without consciously thinking about it, I see our shared experiences as prompts, valid snippets of life, and eternal truths about relationships and about humanity. If I did not write about them, I would forget too easily, not value them, not realise their importance, and perhaps their universality.  

I have looked at others in this group with new understanding, realizing that despite distance, despite differences in cultures, and even at times language, we are all one, all human, all experiencing the same joys and sorrows, concerns, and griefs.

We are a global family. Yes, there are misunderstandings, arguments and fractured relationships at times, just like a real family, but there is also a bond of deep care and friendship, for we understand and support one another, as families should.

I have also reflected in depth about my past experiences, remembering long-forgotten highs and lows – were those not significant life experiences? They too became stories.

I listen to news and current events with heightened interest because I am a writer – and now, more than ever, I am a THINKER. What is their significance? How do these events really impact others? What do they say about the human experience? What do I think or feel? What do I say? I am more in tune with all aspects of my world, more alert.

My “addiction” was a particular blessing during Covid restrictions, providing an outlet for feelings of all kinds, for reflection on the value of life and living, past, present, and future. That was just the start. Exploring and expressing one’s creativity is perhaps a good addiction – but it still should not be all-consuming. I need and want to retain mastery over it, rein it in, be in control.

The tendency towards addiction continues, but it is more harnessed. I don’t think there is a cure. I don’t want a cure. I just love to write. And that does not need to be a problem unless I allow it to take over my life. Writing is a good thing, not destructive like alcohol or drugs. Writing is making me a better person, not a worse version of myself.

I still swing from the frustration at times of knowing my work is not yet “right” – but not seeing the solution – to the elation of knowing when it is, and there is a range of emotions in between, where craft, skill and determined effort must refine and polish till the piece shines. Patience and perseverance are qualities to be valued and developed. I’ll take the lows of writing because I enjoy the feelings of satisfaction when it “works”.

I write about what is important to me. If it is significant to me then it has sufficient value to be written.  I monitor what I write; everything must align with my value system and beliefs. I will only share pieces I am happy with, whether poetry or prose, fiction, or non-fiction, but I don’t want to be confined to a single or simple genre. Variety is important to me. Creativity and imagination are gifts – and are part of what it means to be human.

It is always the writer’s hope that others will also find their work relevant. It does feel good when my writing resonates with others, knowing that they too understand and appreciate my thoughts. You will all understand that “connection” through words. However, even if that doesn’t happen, it doesn’t matter.

So, my resolution did not last long. I still write for the joy I experience when I am writing, typing as fast as my clumsy fingers allow, sometimes resenting that I must go out at certain times, at times not acknowledging the rising pile of ironing or other housework that needs doing, only spasmodically doing the work necessary to maintain the garden …. Isn’t that the life and experience of anyone who loves celebrating his creativity?

But I am watching myself, making sure other priorities remain just that, I am deliberately choosing to spend less time on writing. I just enjoy, but don’t need, the “fix” of writing.

So yes, I write because I am a recovering addict – to writing.