Obessions, addictions and other ways to pass the time.

I have discovered an undeniable truth...I am addicted to writing. I pretend it is a hobby, but in reality it occupies more of my time than nearly anything else I do. I finished the fourth book, thrilled that at last I translated the story which took up residence in my brain since college into a tangible form. I closed my laptop, put away my flashdrive and celebrated with my husband. Not two days later, I found myself scribbling at work a short story about one of the characters during the days of ancient Rome. I know every detail, every facet of each of the characters' lives from the major protagonists to the most minor who are barely a blip on paper. I am privy to their more intimate thoughts, see through their eyes, feel what it is to walk in their skin. As much as I remind myself they do not exist, they feel real since they are now firmly ingrained as part of me. I remind myself this is what fiction does. Good fiction enthralls us, blurs the lines of reality and fantasy. Growing up, I distinctly remember falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. From the second I read "The Speckled Band," I knew this was the man I was going to marry. As I aged, I understood this character as a product only of Doyle's fervent imagination yet a part of me clung to the unattainable (and dare I say, unstable) man. The crush faded as most do, but enough of my desire for the ideal remained that my husband decided to usurp this character and found a creative and effective way to profess his intention, unwilling to be upstaged by a fictional detective in his beloved's affections. What is the point of this digression? Fiction lures us in and a truly captivating story becomes part of our reality, shaping our thoughts and the world around us. Right now, my reality remains in the world of monsters and men, but I hear the quiet murmurings of new stories, new characters. Like shimmering phantasms, they wait in the periphery, pulling energy and gaining momentum until they can one day be fully formed. And so I pick up my pen and once again lose myself to my own world. This is an addiction I hope to never be cured of. I enjoy this murky universe too much.