Author Abused by Writing

I am in an abusive relationship with writing.
It’s been going on for quite a while now, but I always come running back. I will never quit it. It’s been with me for so long that there is no way the two of us can be parted.
It’s a good thing I have an understanding husband. He knows about my clandestine relationship and he sometimes approves because writing gives me something that he never can.
He understands when I crawl out of bed at two in the morning to answer writing’s call. He sits idly aside; waiting to pick up the pieces as writing tears into my soul and leaves me a weeping crying mess on the bed.
He has been so patient as writing rudely invades our family vacations, insinuating itself between me and my view of the ocean on the beach and pulling me away from the roller coasters at the amusement parks.
My kids have gotten used to the site of me on my knees begging writing to leave me be, at least until I can finish dinner or complete the laundry or even help with homework. But my kids are not resentful of the time I send on writing; they merely bide their time and grab me before I crash after writing leaves me panting and sweating, a useless heap on the couch.
Yes, writing and I go way back. I remember when we were first introduced. My parents loved it. There I was six years old, ruing kindergarten, and they assumed that writing would be a good friend for me and would keep me calm.
Little did they know what writing was responsible for most of the childish shenanigans that got me sitting in the corner, punished as much as they could punish an active child. And when I was sent to my room, guess who they sent with me? You know it, Writing’s best friend Books. I was told to sit and read with Books and then they even gave me a pad and pencil, telling me to write as a punishment.
Oh the things we got up to in secret, under my parents nose! Oh all the worlds Books and Writing took me too, encouraging me to speak my mind, to play with sea monsters, to run with cheetahs, to fly in space with the aliens, to blow fire or ice with the dragons.
Yeah, Writing, Books, and I were in a threesome! Oh the many adventures we had as I grew. And they were always there for me.
They showed me things that made my girl-parts quiver in excitement and my heart race with passion. They showed me the depths to which the human soul could sink and the heights of ecstasy mankind could achieve. They helped me with my schoolwork and taught me not to hold myself so seriously.
They were there when the boys decided they wanted someone more socially acceptable. Yeah, Writing Books, and I sat and whimpered over many a pint of ice cream on a lonely Saturday night. They understood and they never judged. They were my fiends and would be with me no matter what.
People began to tell me I should slow down, maybe I was doing it a little too much, that Writing might not be the best use of my time.
But I ignored them. I could stop if I wanted to, and I didn’t want to. I had Writing under my control! Writing gave me words. And words…. Oh baby! Words were such a trip that I was soon spending all my money on dictionaries and thesauruses’, anything to enhance the words.
But then…then writing decided to take over, just a little. I remember it started as small stuff, you know, I would be with Book and suddenly Writing would invade with an idea I just had to get down. Or Writing would insist that it had someone I just had to meet and a place I just had to experience in fifty-K or more!
Books understood, piling up patiently in the corner, biding their time, waiting for when I would hold them in my arms again.
But Writing, man, Writing is persistent.
Before I knew it, Books had multiplied and were taking over my house while Writing engaged my soul.
It was fun and I never saw the danger coming, the evilness of writing.
I reached the danger zone when Writing wanted to add others to our dynamic. I was scared at first, but Writing, as I stated, was persistent. Soon Writing had me liking the idea of showing others what we were doing in private. I became such an exhibitionist, displaying proudly the whole of what we were doing behind closed doors. At first it was a little scary, I didn’t want people to judge. But then I developed a lessier faire, attitude and thought if you don’t like it, don’t be there with us as we performed.
But people liked us together, said we made a create couple. Others even went on to offer suggestions about how we could improve our synergy and thus our performance. Who knew there were classes for this sort of thing? I took each one and soon discovered I was hooked.
Oh yeah, stripped bare to my soul, I would stand on stage and let Writing take control, almost always to a standing ovation. Soon, Writing convinced me to display our wares for money.
Money? But…But isn’t that wrong?
No, Writing assured me. It was only a little compensation for the time we spent putting on our displays. And Writing assured me that the money would only be used to make our public appearances all the more special.
So I agreed, and we entered in contests, who knew there were contests for this sort of thing? And we drew a bigger crowd of people all basking in what we could give them. Man, that is a high like no other, to look out over the stage and see people staring in rapt attention at what Writing could wring out of me.
It is a heady experience.
And before I knew it, more and more people where paying for our time. I got a fancy computer, Writing insisted only but the best for me, and developed some programs so I could write for longer periods of time and do it faster.
Oh, there was contest after contest and trial after trial, and appearances and comments and the glamour of it all.
It was college and I was experimenting with my best friend Ever. Books was still there, but the voice it had began t fade, just a little, and it began to make less demands on my time.
Before I knew it, Writing was pimping me for its own benefits and I was blindly following.
People warned me that Writing would take over, but I said that I could handle it, the words that Writing gave me. I knew when I had to stop. I was fine. I knew what I was doing.
Sure I did.
By this time I was so hooked on words that I began to neglect my friends and family, wanted to only be with Writing and words and…. and… And I discovered I had a small problem…and I discovered there is no twelve-step program for getting over it.
Then I got tired, the husbands and the kids and real life, I still had to deal with real life, but Writing refused to understand. It made demands that I could barely keep up with.
And when I failed to meet Writing exacting stipulations, it turned on me.
First, it started steaming words, just one here and there. But my words began to disappear. How I needed those words to get me thought he day and they were gone.
It scared me and I begged wiring to stop it. Wiring agreed end my torments, to bring back the words. And Writing apologized for treating me that way, but reminded me that I brought it on myself for not producing fast enough.
So I began to try harder, research more, to really throw myself into it. And the moment I faltered, Writing struck back and it struck back hard.
Writers block. My body couldn’t process my words for weeks.
Please, baby, I begged. Just give me a little, just a few words to see me through! Please! I’ll do anything! I’ll conjugate and I’ll alliterate, and I’ll use spell check! Please, bring the words back!
What a cruel thing to do to something you insist you love!
I cried every night when Writing went away. I wept and a I screamed at people who tried to consul me. I refused to eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think until Writing came back to me.
Oh Writing apologized for leaving broken and bruised, and it gave me back my words. But something had changed between us.
After the second time Writing abandoned me to real life I realized that I needed help.
But like I said, there is no support group for quitting. There are lots of organizations for addicts like me, organizations who encourage Writing more, who urge you to get your word fix. But there are none who help you find a way to make it stop.
It’s like a cult, you know? Once you get in, abandon your family and your friends and you real life, and your reality. Writing is your friend; we give our all for Writing.
So here I am, being pimped for over ten years, surrounded my success and failures, all thanks to Writing and his addictive words.
Books are still here too, biding their time, multiplying, collecting dust, but I get to that old friend rarely now. Everything is Writing and the word.
The family knows and they offer what support they can, but everyone knows I am a slave to Writing his oh so alluring addictive words,
This is an addiction I can’t shake, and even after all Writing put me thought, I am not sure I want to break free.
So, I am in an abusive relationship with writing. It controls my day and nights, It is first in my thoughts when I wake in the morning, and the last thing on my mind when I go to bed a night.
And I realize that I will always be an addict, begging for Writing to be good to me, and give me just one more word, one more sentence, one more paragraph.
When I use the words, The End, I know that it really means, In the Beginning. Because Writing is an addiction that you can never shake.
I accept this. Writing…. will forever trap me and I think, God help me, but I think I like it.