I’m not an expert on addiction, and I think I throw the term around too casually sometimes, along the lines of, “You need to get off the computer—you’re addicted to it.” I also use the classic definition of pornography in my analysis, as in “I’m not sure what it is, but I know it when I see it.” So please take my observations here with more than a grain or two of salt.
The American Society of Addiction says that “addiction is characterized by inability to consistently abstain, impairment in behavioral control, craving, diminished recognition of significant problems with one’s behaviors and interpersonal relationships, and a dysfunctional emotional response.”
Although I’ve been a writer all my adult life, I’ve been writing fiction seriously for a little over a year, and now consider it “what I do.” But this summer I traveled in England and Ireland, and later the Rocky Mountains. And I just got back from a quick road trip across the country, followed by visits to relatives I hadn’t seen in decades. For each trip I brought my laptop, iPad, notebooks (large and small), sharpened pencils—all the accoutrements needed to keep writing, or at least jot down all the wonderful character attributes, unique settings, plot ideas, and creative inspiration I would find along the way.
I didn’t open my laptop once.
I took a few pictures and jotted down just enough notes that I wouldn’t forget the name of the places I took pictures of.
All those miles riding across Ireland, Alberta, Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, and the rest of the Midwest? I either enjoyed the scenery, chatted with whoever was driving, or read my Kindle.
Could be Ireland, but it’s actually Ohio.
In short, I left the writing process at home.
My question is: was that a good thing? Shouldn’t I have needed to write? Shouldn’t I have felt a compulsion to record every sensory experience? How about skipping meals to “get it down on paper before I forget” or staying up to all hours tapping away on the keyboard? How about at least blogging?!
None of that happened. In fact, I got plenty of sleep and gained five pounds.
Maybe some of you reading this are thinking, “Well, she must not be that dedicated; if I were in that situation, I’d certainly be writing.” And if I were standing where you are, I might be saying the same thing, because of course I’d wish to be that dedicated.
I find writing romance novels both joyous and frustrating, often at the same time. And when I have to write (usually related to a deadline), I can be scritchy, or at least whiny. Yes, sometimes writing does impair my relationships with others (“Sorry I can’t go to lunch—I’ve got to write two thousand words today.”). But I’m not addicted. And maybe I should work on that … or at least convince myself that my subconscious mind is absorbing information that I can use later on.
I find it troubling, but I will take heart from the writer Colette, who said, “The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately; the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.”
By the way, “prolixity” (I had to look it up) means “the use of too many words to express an idea.” Uh oh.
