Diagnosis: incurable

Yes, dear reader, it is true. I’m terminally afflicted with writeritis. I am told there is no cure. I shall die a writer.

I’ve never been able to walk away from writing and even during my ten day break I thought of writing often.

It’s a strange one as far as afflictions are concerned. It usually makes you feel miserable, almost always inadequate. It requires solitude, which begets loneliness in those of us, who are unhappy without company. If you are extravert, you will suffer even more.

You pry yourself wide open, digging deep to pull up the song inside you to tell stories never heard before. It means criticism can hurt and you need to grow a thick sort of skin to keep going and learn to accept rejection over and over again.

It will never be easier not to write, just like you could not simply stop breathing.

The only thing that will keep you from despair is to keep writing. It may never be brilliant and you may never have the guts to publish it. But if that were your only aim, you should probably not write anyway.

Some of us only write not to drown in all those words.

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