You write with a fervor you’ve never written with before, you’re totally in the zone. You feel the literary Gods’ magic all over you and your brain activity is through the roof, nothing exists before you but the canvas, you are the artist in the throes of creativity tapping into the nature of existence and pulling something extraordinary from its depths.
You’re having fun writing. That’s a rare thing.
Not that writing can’t be fun or enjoyable, just that that fun is hard to come by like a great story idea. Something you can spend literally all day on and not get tired of.
The windows are shut, the world no longer exists, the blinds are closed and your front door is closed as well. Your cellphone is off and no one knows where you are, not even you. But you’re fine with that, being in this place of wonder inside your own mind as your fingers type away on autopilot, becoming one with the machine.
It’s something that doesn’t happen much but when it does, it’s a helluva ride. Your thoughts race at a million miles a minute and your fingers struggle to keep up, you’re like a pianist playing before a live concert. The spotlights are on you, the audience pays rapt attention to your performance as you entrap their minds and hearts with your melodies, manipulating the letters on the keyboard like piano keys with dilated pupils that only ever occur with arousal or the use of potent drugs.
But writing is a drug, my friends and a dangerous one at that. But, once you get addicted, it can deprive you of everything you thought you were attached to. Your family, friends, other hobbies. It will feed upon your time like a vampire on a fresh virgin, guzzling it like a gallon water after an intense workout and leave you drain and used up like a prostitute working a triple shift.
However. . .
What it gives you in return is more than worth it. It can give you fame, fortune, glory of a sort, but, most importantly. . . it can give you a legacy. Something to leave behind after your death, something people will go back to for hundreds maybe thousands of years. But that’s only if you’re great enough, only if you’re ready for that task, to accept that call.
With the way you’re writing at this moment, this very second, fingers typing away and mind completely mesmerized by the fluidity in which the words escape your fingers and wreak havoc on the white canvas, backed my the magic of literary Gods which have decided to gaze upon you and bestow that energy which made Shakespeare, Dickinson, Mary Shelley, Poe, and many other greats. . . you feel like you’re ready, and you knew you accepted the call the moment you started writing.
Till next week. . .