The Story Addict

... exploring the secret life of a functional wordaholic

Photo: my current writing nook … that I barely get to use

It’s a little past five o’clock in the morning and I’ve just made it to the end of the latest novel. Of course, it will need a few more passes before it’s ready for anyone to see. This one has been with me through just over a year, which is a long time for me to get a first draft down. My usual timeframe is three to four months, but this year has been extraordinary.

There’s been my son’s multiple hospitalizations, my growing health challenges, a move across the country, the loss of my beloved Handsome Henry, big changes at my day job … and … and … it just felt as though everything that could knock me off my feet showed up grinning, a baseball bat leaned on its shoulder, and ready to rumble.

But I’m not going to feel sorry for myself or complain. Nope. We all face life’s challenges, right? I refuse to let any of that static win or snuff out my passion.

The biggest enemy to productivity is time. I wish I had luxurious amounts to ponder and work at a leisurely pace. I don’t. Who does? I’ve had to take whatever moments were available. I always preach that using things like your phone or speech-to-voice to write in small flashes when you’re waiting for an appointment or when you just wake up can lead to a lot of words down over time. This year, I lived by that credo. A few minutes here and there add up over a year.

Some days, I’ve had less than five minutes, but I was sure to do something, even if it was just something like, “In the next beat, Sarah discovers an insect has been living quite well and joyously inside her liver.”

These seeds get planted and grow. While we’re tending to life’s never-ending parade of commitments and drama, our own dramatic world blossoms in our subconscious.

I get a happy little buzz from it, to be honest, and I count it as self-care. The worlds and characters soon become real and dimensional (even if some of my critics may not agree), and over time, provide me with the same comfort as a favorite TV show, movie, or book.

This is a behavior I’ve practiced since middle school when I’d work on my weird stories for a few minutes before school or at lunch, hiding away in a corner with my secret world. This has always been a special place. As an adult, writing has felt like the bottle of sauce kept in the bottom desk drawer, a nip stolen here and there when no one’s watching, lest they see my addiction.

Over the past year, I’ve not had any prolonged personal writing time, and I’m amazed a novel has still managed to manifest itself. It just had to gestate and be born, and I was the vessel for its insistence. Kind of like that bug siphoning off nutrients in Sarah’s middle. Pretentious, heady stuff, eh? Probably. And so what?

All this comes down to my wanting to share proof that serious progress can be had, even when life’s not cooperating … even when you’re exhausted … even when your body’s rebelling … and even if there’s some parasite inhaling your blood like a Hell’s Kitchen junkie … you can still make it to ‘the end’.

Oh? And try to maintain your sense of humor, even and especially if it’s dark.

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