Blog 98 - Writing Addiction

Blog 98 - Writing Addiction

November 2025

A question was asked of me the other day and the answer I gave didn’t quite hit the mark. My immediate, knee-jerk answer was polished, truthful on a technical level, but utterly lacking in soul. It was the answer I thought I should give. It was the palatable, marketable response.
But as soon as the words left my mouth, I felt that familiar itch—the sense that I had cheated the moment. I hadn’t given the real answer. I’d given the answer that suggests I have a five-year business plan and am totally on top of things.
But I think you know me better than that by now so, I’ll ask myself the same question here and we can get into the nitty-gritty part of my writing journey. After all, if there is one thing this Blog has taught me, it’s that no matter how much I try to be guarded, freewriting has a way of de-censoring my thoughts and it all spills out. So here we go; What did I want from writing when I first started out?
When I first started dabbling in the written word, I wasn’t exactly envisioning book signings with screaming fans or a Scrooge McDuck-esque vault overflowing with gold coins. Fame? Fortune? Nah, those felt like distant, slightly improbable dreams, maybe validation? Recognition for a job well done. Nah, I write because I want to write not to be told I can write. How about for the praise, adoration? Nope, that’s the kind of thing you want from your wife when you’ve done a job that she wanted you to do. What I really craved was something a bit more… fundamental. I wanted an escape. I realize now that the deepest desire wasn't just to run away from reality, but to find a patch of ground where I was the undisputed sovereign.
In real life, we are constantly reacting. We react to our boss, react to the news cycle, react to the weather, react to broken appliances. Most of our energy is spent mitigating circumstances thrust upon us. But the moment I start writing, I control everything. I control the weather in my fictional world. I control who lives and who dies (sorry, sometimes they just have to go). I control the emotional arc, the timing of the reveal, and the quality of the dialogue. It's a dictator's paradise, one where the people I dictate to are fictional and dance to my tune and my tune alone. I can unleash as little or as much of the content, character, or calamity as my mood dictates. If I feel rageful, I channel it into a devastating battle scene. If I feel contemplative, I write a long, philosophical dialogue under a fake moon.
It’s an escape from the relentless hum of modern life, the endless to-do lists that multiply faster than rabbits, the soul-numbing predictability of the daily grind. You know the drill: wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat, with the occasional sigh thrown in for good measure. I was looking for a portal, a secret door out of the ordinary, and I stumbled upon it in the most unassuming of places – the blank page. And oh boy, did it deliver.
It’s truly, utterly astonishing where my imagination can go when I give it a leash. Through the glorious, sometimes messy, but always magical medium of writing, those fleeting thoughts, those “what ifs,” those half-formed images swirling in the back of my mind have become… well, real. Tangible. I can see the worlds I conjure up unfurl before my eyes, as vivid and detailed as any landscape I’ve ever visited. That random spark of an idea, that snippet of overheard conversation, that strange dream I can barely remember – words are the alchemist’s ingredients that give them substance.
It’s like giving my brain a playground. Before, those thoughts were just wisps of smoke, dissipating into the ether the moment I tried to grasp them. Now, I can pin them down, examine them, build entire universes around them. It’s an incredible feeling of satisfaction, a quiet hum of accomplishment that settles deep in my chest. It’s not just a hobby anymore; it’s become a source of purpose, a gentle nudge forward in a world that can sometimes feel like it’s nudging you backward.
Now, I’m not saying my life was lacking in purpose before. I had jobs, responsibilities, people I cared about – all the usual trappings of a functioning adult. But this… this is mine. It’s a domain where I am the architect, the king, the benevolent dictator (depending on the day). I control the narrative, the pacing, the very fabric of existence within those pages. I can unleash a torrent of creativity when inspiration strikes, a hurricane of plot twists and character arcs. Or, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I can simply dip my toes in, crafting a quiet observation or a whimsical scene, letting the words flow as gently as a meandering stream. It’s entirely dictated by my mood, my energy levels, my internal whims. There’s no deadline I can’t bend, no character I can’t mould (within reason, of course – sometimes they have a mind of their own, which is a whole other blog post!).
This whole writing gig has turned into an experience I never remotely anticipated. It’s become an integral part of my routine, a crutch I lean on, a comfort I seek out. And if I’m being completely honest, it’s become my “acceptable” drug of choice. It is addictive, but not in a destructive sense, in a necessary one. I need the hit of creation. I need the rush of finding the perfect word combination that cracks open a scene. I need the slow, building euphoria of watching a character disobey my original intentions and become something better, something real.
When I go too long without writing—without entering that structured escape hatch—I start to feel the edges of the mundane world close in too tightly. My thoughts become fuzzy, restless, and undirected. The drudgery starts to reclaim its territory. But once I sit down, once the fingers hit the keys, there’s an immediate calm. It’s a meditative state fueled by narrative tension. It’s not illicit, it doesn’t involve questionable substances (Unless you count vast amounts of coffee!) there are no late-night rendezvous with shadowy figures. My “drug” is perfectly legal, readily available, and frankly, rather civilized. It requires nothing more than a quiet corner, a computer (or pen and paper, depending on the location), and the willingness to let my mind wander off the beaten path.
There’s a certain thrill, a rush, when a sentence clicks perfectly into place, when a metaphor lands with a satisfying thump, when a plot point you’ve been wrestling with suddenly untangles itself with elegant simplicity. It’s an exhilarating high, a surge of dopamine that rivals any manufactured bliss. And unlike some recreational pursuits, the “comedown” is just as rewarding. It’s the quiet satisfaction of a job well done, of a story told, of a world brought to life. It leaves me feeling energized, fulfilled, and ready to face the mundane world again, armed with the knowledge that I have my secret escape waiting for me.
I am still a long way from figuring out every step of this career path, and the destination remains blurry—but the journey itself, this incredible, controlled escape, this acceptable addiction, has become the treasure. Here’s to the words that give form to my thoughts and substance to my dreams. Here’s to my “acceptable” drug of choice, the one that offers an escape without consequence, a thrill without the hangover, and a purpose that’s entirely my own. If you’re feeling the weight of modern life pressing down, I wholeheartedly recommend giving writing a try. You never know, you might just discover your own perfectly acceptable addiction.