Writing is addictive
See, over the last few weeks, I have been moving into my new “old” home. A decade ago, my husband and I purchased the most adorable little cottage, farmhouse, thing. One bedroom, just under 1000 square feet, with a gorgeous view of the sunset outside my writing window. I love it, but, being over 100 years old, it needed a little love.
He spent his free time doing things like tearing down the wallpaper, putting up new drywall, and vaulting the ceilings. While outside it still looks like an ordinary, tiny farmhouse, inside is very different. It’s an old style chateau, just like we always wanted. Needless to say, the renovations took a while.
Then we moved in.
Well, since I’m assuming moving is something most humans have done at some point in their life, I think you all know the hell I’ve just been through. Heavy objects, time limits, and all of that result in aching muscles and not enough sleep. When you’re a writer, there’s another problem.
No computer. No internet. No desk. Where’s my chair?
Yep. It was this point that I realized I’m an addict. I had to go a whole DAY without access to the tools of my trade! Of course, some idiot (that would be me) forgot to back up her latest novel onto the cloud, so the presence of my laptop wasn’t as helpful as it could have been. Then we got the new ISP hooked up, but no chair. That hadn’t made it over yet. Over the course of almost 30 hours, I was prevented from writing.
You read that right. A bit over a day and my withdrawal symptoms had kicked in full force. I was cranky, snappish, and just a pain to be around. Then it got worse. My darling man hooked up my computer, but just as I got into full swing, something happened, and it restarted for no reason. Then again. The third time, I was told to move as he began diagnostics. The result? My water cooling was failing and the CPU kept overheating.
A quick surgery later, and we were able to save things with no permanent damage. In the mean time? Yeah, he was about to pull my hard drive and stick it in his case (in a move reminiscent of that from Challenge Accepted) just so I could keep going. There were a lot of sympathetic soothing noises and promises that it wouldn’t take long.
The whole time this was going on, I kept thinking about how horrible my first world problems were. Yes, I knew I was being silly. I was well aware that all of this would be ok, and that I didn’t need to commit any serious crimes (like murder, if I could have only figured out who to kill). That didn’t make me act any better. I just couldn’t help myself. The need for more of that clickity clack sound, or to see the stream of words filling the page? It was just too strong.
I had to get my fix. Without it, I was suffering, knowing that ideas were flowing into my mind and right back out with no virtual method to retain them. Pen and paper is much too slow. Short notes lost the glory of the ideas in my head. I NEEDED TO WRITE, and why was all of this happening?
But I’m not looking for treatment. I think this is one addiction I’ll keep. You see, there’s nothing quite like the feel of a good keyboard under my fingers and a litany of words spilling onto the screen. The joy of releasing my next book, reading the comments by my fans, or seeing a new character progress is just too good. I can control this. I’ve got it. Don’t worry about me.
Now my husband? Well, if my computer breaks again, someone needs to do a welfare check. Maybe a safe house? I’ll try, but I make no promises for the childish tantrums that are bound to happen. After all, I am addicted, and he’s my enabler.