November 2006: Writing/Not Writing

A therapist once told me that research has discovered the fact that writing, at least for those who do it day after day, is addictive. It is, apparently, one of those activities, like exercise, that releases some kind of chemical or hormone to activate the brain’s pleasure center, the one that says, “More! More! More!”

I’ve always known she was right.

When I’m writing, my days fall into place. They simply are, abundant and ripe. All that fuels my stories has weight and meaning and a right to exist, even old wounds, even fresh grief.

My 60th book recently came out . . . and the 61st followed soon after. I had to stand in front of the shelf in my study that holds my books and count to come up with those numbers. Just think of all the forests destroyed in my name! Think, too, of the thousands of readers, some of them touched, some of them bored, nearly all of them forever unknown to me. Has the touching been deep enough, important enough to justify the paper spent? I will never know. All I can know is that, day by day, writing those 61 books has given me pleasure.