by Strange Wulf
Just what is writing? To me, it's the most precious gift I have...
|I can feel it again. That shudder. That ache. That longing of the thrill, the rush. I need it again. My drug.
My hand's shaking. It does that. Usually when the need gets real strong. Nobody seems to notice; I tend to be discreet. It'll be interesting when someone catches me. They don't really know about my drug. Some do, but they don't quite understand.
I need to find my hat. Put it on, sit down and feel the rush again. Keep my hands busy. Idleness is the Devil's workbench you know. Heh. Won't get much work out of me today.
Where is it? I swear I left it around here... ah, there it is. Now I just have to sit down at my computer... feel the rush again...
Feel that thrill. To dance in the rhythm of my craft. To forge worlds on the page. To bring characters to life with ink and pen. To use words to breathe life into a place I've never been and never will visit. To birth creatures no one has ever seen in the minds of others.
I want it. I need it. To feel that thrill, that rush of creation as my hands blur, laying down line after line, never stopping until I'm done.
I lust. I hunger. I ache and yearn.
To write. To dream.
But mostly... to be.