Some people get up early every day to go running, or to go to the gym. I wake up early to write. If I have to be at work at nine, I wake up at 6:30 so I have enough time to shower, make a healthy breakfast and write for about an hour before I go to work. I spend more time writing than I do getting ready in the morning. I spend at least an hour when I get home from work most days, too. Then another two at night after I eat dinner. I do it because I love it, because it gives me that adrenaline rush I crave, as I paint worlds with words on the page, as I bring life to characters who seem almost real. If writing were exercise I would be in awesome shape. I have no idea why suddenly in the middle of my life this urge to write and never stop just hit me. It’s inexplicable and something my friends and family don’t really understand.
My children think I’m crazy as I deliriously type, my hands moving without me having to think, the words pouring out faster than my fingers can contain them to the page. They know when I have that crazed look in my eyes, they had better wait until I’m done. I’ve heard them telling their friends, “Yeah, my mom writes books and blogs and stuff. She’s crazy.” Of course, they are right. Who in their right mind wakes up two hours early every morning to get more writing in?
“Just sleep a little longer with me,” my husband whispers to me every morning as I get out of bed to run to the coffee pot, and then to my computer where I write until I get that feeling I crave, the one where you know you’ve written a masterpiece. It’s like a drug, this thing I call writing. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I fucking love it so much.