November 2006: Writing/Not Writing (cont.)

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.

For weeks stretching into months now I have been between major projects. I have had some short nonfiction pieces to do, part of my Wonders of America series. Those feel so easy as almost to be cheating. I read and read and read for about a week. Then I sit down to write about 200 words plus some interesting facts at the end, and I’m done. I almost feel guilty when I cash the check . . . almost. But in the brief process I never move into that place I long for, the one where work and pleasure are indistinguishable from one another. It’s simply work, good, solid work.