From the dictionary: a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly.

Hello. My name is Diana, and I am an addict. My addiction is writing.

I don’t in any way mean to diminish the pain and chaos caused by harmful addictions to drugs, alcohol, and other evils in the world. I know too many people who have struggled and some still are struggling with those. However, I realize that I do have a powerful need, like an addiction, to write, to put words together, to rearrange words. Only in the past few years have I shared my scribbling with anyone, not even my family.

I can spend hours writing and rewriting a single paragraph until I feel like it conveys what I want to say. My husband will attest to the fact that when a notion grabs me, I will excuse myself from his company and say, “I’ll be back in a second. I just have to write something down.” Then I will disappear for two or three hours. Time has no relevance when I’m writing. He usually needs to bring me back to earth with a reminder of an appointment, dinnertime, or something real-world that needs attending. I don’t know how long I could disappear into my head without a guide to help me find my way back.

I write even when I don’t have paper and pencil. I take long walks and compose stories that sometimes get written and sometimes disappear into the ether. I write in my dreams. Lucky for me, writing can be done without great expense. Unlike addictions that require copious amounts of ingredients, legal and illegal, writing only requires my own company with a pencil and paper. Of course, a computer and printer are wonderful assets to have, but they are not necessary. In fact, I cannot write poetry on the computer. It requires handwriting. I met a woman who handwrote her entire biography (over sixty years) on lined notebook paper – stacks and stacks of paper. She didn’t have access to a computer, nor did she even know how to type. It didn’t stop her from writing.

When I finally came out of the writing closet, about twenty years ago, I gradually began to honor my desire to write. It was slow go. I have written stories since I was seven, but it was always in secret. I wrote for English class throughout school of course, but not in a specific writing class. I had stacks of notebooks and journals accumulated over decades as my children grew. All were written and stuck in closets or drawers when no one was around. When we moved from Seattle to Tucson, I threw them out, thinking they were excess baggage. Now I wish to heaven I had them because they were full of wonderful observations of my children and the world around us at that time. Memories of those times have faded, occasionally to be resurrected by photos or conversations with my husband.

In Tucson, on a whim, I took a creative writing class and met many wonderful writers. A few of us who lived near each other formed a writing group. It lasted twenty-five years. It was a revelation to me. We took classes together, traveled to conferences, seminars, and retreats in the US and internationally, and learned the craft of writing. We encouraged each other to improve with thoughtful critiques. We all had families, jobs, and friends who required our attention, but we managed to make our writing life fit into those priorities. None of us wrote as professionals. I have never expected my writing to be a source of income. In fact, I wouldn’t want it to be because then it would change and be subject to other people’s requirements and timeframes. It would no longer be mine.

When my group co-authored our book about our writing experiences, it was my assignment to build a blog for marketing purposes. It took months, but I did get a blog started. I was surprised that I liked the feedback from a wider group of readers. Until then, I wrote only for my own pleasure and to a small audience. The blog brought in readers with different voices, different opinions. I loved it. After a few months contributing to that blog, I found writing on a schedule and marketing to a specific audience to be confining. I wanted to include all my writing, fiction, non-fiction, and wild observations in my communications, so I started my own blog, which is sporadic and definitely does not follow a specific line of topics or thought. I value the people who follow me and especially those who choose to comment. It began to feel like I was writing to friends, but a much larger group of friends than before. One woman’s comment that I treasure said, and I paraphrase for brevity, “I love to sit with my morning coffee and your blog post to start my day.” Now, when I write, I have a softly undefined picture of her sitting in her living room or out on her patio (depending on the weather), reading and sipping her coffee, and it makes me smile.

Stories and characters swirl in my head day and night. Some wake me at 2:00am demanding to be put on paper. There are two elderly gentlemen in Paris who come to me often. They were in love with the same woman for many years. I wrote a bit of their story, and they want me to expand on it. There is a very wealthy lady who sees fairies in her garden and wants more time on the page. A man who committed murder and may have gotten away with it asks for time to tell his story, his motive, more completely. The little girl with a pet dragon would like me to follow her family through a complete day. The family may be a bit eccentric…but maybe not. I wrote about a sorceress who enchanted an entire town with her magic. She has more to tell me. A young woman wants to find her father, whom she assumed died in a foreign country, but enigmatic clues have made her unsure of his whereabouts. There is a ghost involved. She asks me to spend some time following her lead. On and on, these characters in my head ask for page time.

I have some professional writer friends – you know, people who make a living writing books, magazine articles, and such. Most of them say they don’t like to go back to read what they have already published. I can totally understand that. To me, a piece of writing is always unfinished, even after I’ve put it out in public. If I go back to read it, I find new ways of saying something or a more appropriate word to fit a sentence. It is torture. I have, on occasion, gone back to my blog and rewritten a post – not entirely, but rearranged words, clarified a point or made a new observation on the topic. One of my writer friends, who has written several books, told me not to do that. If I want to expand on something I’ve written, I should rewrite it entirely as a new essay or story. He said to think of each post as a painter does a painting. Once it is finished, it is finished – leave it alone, no touch-ups, hang it on the wall, and enjoy it. Thank you, Wes. I think he is right. Each time I write something, it is composed at that particular time with what I know or imagine then. It is complete. I can amend, expand, and revise the concept/story, but then it is a different story unto itself. I have a myriad of unfinished stories and essays sitting in files in my desk or on the computer. Like half-dressed friends, I don’t want them to be seen in public. They would be embarrassed. So, they languish behind a filmy shoji screen in my mind until I find the right clothes to complete their outfits.

Thank you for reading my confession. I don’t expect the addiction to go away, but it is nice to be able to talk about it.