Writing is a drug. You can become addicted to it; actually you completely need to be addicted to it to be any way successful at it. Commercially, or spiritually. Thing is, if you let distractions like your day job or your family (cold, I know) get in the way of you and the paper or screen, you unknowingly, gradually wean yourself off that drug. Until one day, you find you’ve kicked the habit.
And that’s not good.
It’s 7 weeks since I last wrote a line of fiction. Sounds like I’m confessing. And I am. To myself. Can’t call myself a writer if I’m not bloody well writing anything.
Yeah, yeah. All the books, all the legends, all those who know better, say you must write every day, whatever you do – but we all know that’s easier said than done. But, and this makes me think of that iconic coffee shop scene in Heat and Neil McCauley’s rule, that’s the discipline.
That means no matter how fried, stepped on, wrung out my brain or what’s left of it is, I need to put my arse in the seat and the pen to paper and write something. Anything. Which may not be much of a thing at all. But here we go. This is me drawing a line in the sand and chopping up a line of that drug called writing here on the kitchen table, ready to snort it right up into my dormant grey matter and see if I can’t get myself hooked again.