I keep saying, I can hook you up lately. And okay, I’m talking about words. But I’m still beginning to feel like a drug dealer. Let me give you this story, this book, this habit, this addiction. First taste is free.*
Maybe it’s because I think of stories as visceral things. A story can exercise your mind and intellect as well, but it’s the gut-deep emotional impact that makes one stay with you. That makes you crave more.
That feeling is the reason I write. I know some people write for their children, for catharsis, for their teachers, or friends, or a more amorphous audience out there in the world somewhere. I write for me. I always have.
I love the very act of it. The feeling of creation, the head-rush of godhood, teasing out of nothingness emotion that can twist right down to your core. That sensation is why I’ve been writing as long as I can remember, fitting it in around school and life and sleep in a not terribly sane way. It gives me this adrenaline rush like you would not believe.
I am, I should tell you, an adrenaline junkie. Sometimes I jump out of planes, when I was younger I used to walk into traffic. But also, and always, I write.
* I was going to say, Of course, story isn’t really a drug but you know what? I don’t know that that’s true. Stories can take over your mind, your emotions, dictate the steps of your day… Some people live their lives based on things they learned in stories, build their identities, their hopes, their dreams around possibilities they first saw outlined on the pages of a book, in the artwork of a comic, in the shining glow of a TV. And for some people stories wind so deep that they end up going the other way again.