If we think back over our romantic history we can all identify moments of madness. Whether it was that crazy moment of intimacy in a not so discreet place, or those phone calls we made night after night that caused such severe sleep deprivation they almost cost us our careers.
Then there is the insanity when we lose love. We believe that our lives will never be the same again and that we shall suffer for the rest of eternity without our love at our side. But we get over it, because we always do.
My title today isn’t actually in reference to romance. I’ve been reflecting on my writing career and considering the lengths I’ve gone to, and the sacrifices I’ve made, all in the name of fiction.
I wouldn’t trade any of it. Indeed writing has been a lifelong companion and will always be my greatest love. Without it, I suffer. My craft can cost me sleep and sustinance. It costs me time and has taken me through many trials. But I carry on.
It’s like an addiction. A sweet high that can lift me to the heavens and then drop me to rock bottom. I sail through in times of passion and toil in times of task. But I carry on.
In years gone by, I’ve walked miles in all weather just for the promise of an internet connection to bring me to my words. I’ve gone without power because the words would not release me.
The more I think about it, the more I realise just how enslaved I am. I am the submissive partner. I wait in hope of the calling, the inspiration that will allow me to embrace my love, to envelope myself in the warmth of companionship offered by my allusive and mysterious mate.
I am at the beck and call of the words that lie in wait for me. I am only what those words want me to be, a conduit between them and the corporeal. I give them form and poetry, weaving the story demanding to be told. I am used by my lover for the gratifcation of completion.
My love promises no reward except the knowledge of productivity, but there is no guarantee of satisfaction on either side. My passion is absolute but my companion is fickle, often reaching out only to pull back and dash all hopes of achievement. But, still, I carry on.
I cannot give it up. I will remain compliant. Until it is time to act again I shall dream of my love, of the words and the stories that consume me. I will do anything for my love because my love is who I am. I write because to not would be to forsake my greatest confidante. Writing is my obsession, and I will be obedient to its will. I carry on because these are the things we do for love.
Good luck on your adventures,