The bondage of a writer’s life

    It’s the high and lows of a writer’s drug. Memorized by the seduction of the lusty pulls of characters. Their demanding efforts to control your every thought. You wake up during the night only to realize someone is missing, seduced or worse murdered. They don’t let you rest until you write what they want to say. Confessions, doubts, secrets, and lies. They argue about their accused sinister acts. Then they make love, caressing your movements, combing their hands through your hair, warming parts of your body that have gone untouched for weeks because your time is consumed by their nagging wants. Gentling brushing your lips with their fingertips, you try hard to ignore the passion they crave. All the while, the chills rake down your back. You become paranoid, the watchful eyes over your shoulders, they tug at your hair, individual hairs of teasing like spiders in a web.

“Write about me. Say this. Do that. I want to be the hero. My name, say my name. It was me I killed them. Bathe me in the blood of their hopeless lives. I won’t tell.”

It’s a warped world. It’s a game of mind-blowing adventure of make believe. The ghost hunt from within a writer, never to leave the soul. We bond with the characters that we create. We live in their shoes, many at one time. We hurt when they hurt; we feel the pain, the anger, and the pangs of intimate hunger.

Is it a curse or some sort of mental state that a writer must suffer through day and night? How does a writer distinguish between all the people within their head without going insane?

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