This is the first time for a while that I've gotten back into bed with short-form prose, but last night I had that amazing feeling (and I'm getting it again tonight) - a surge of emotion; a rush - and if you're not a writer I can't explain this to you (and I know it's gonna sound as pretentious as Hell), but I'm hoping you'll get this if there's something in your life that you really love doing and which makes you feel whole and healed:
But: writing is the best feeling in the world.
No, really. Sounds crazy, I know, and it doesn't matter whether it all floods out of me in a surge of words (that ol' literary cliche of "It wrote itself...") or if I have to peck / chisel / cajole / threaten the Gods themselves to make that magical sparkly wordstuff appear on a sheet of paper or a cheap, crappy flatscreen: I fucking LOVE it.
I LOVE writing.
It completes me in ways I find hard to express. And that's prob. the real endgame (even though no one ever says it out loud): to find the exact right words that explain to yourself or comfort or finally fill that hole and which, through some magical / viral trasmutation process, do the same for others.
When writers say, "I'll be happy if just one person gets this", they generally mean themselves. Any audience picked up along the way is a bonus. A wonderful bonus.
Most stories are really just one side of the writer's brain talking to the other, while other people listen in.
It's a selfish thing, really, but it's also masochistic too: otherwise, why would I be up doing this now, when all the other 'kids' are out playing?
It's because I fucking have to.
Because I LOVE it.
I'd just forgotten. Now I remember.