The Dark Side of Book Obsession

Sometimes I fall too far into myself. When I do, the books I read or the stories I write become more real than my real life. I get lost in the endless landscapes of other worlds, befriend characters that were spun from other writers' minds, get so caught up in the events of these fictional people's lives that mine doesn't seem all that important anymore.

When this happens, I withdraw. I curl up inside my mind and I avoid friends and family. I avoid my responsibilities. When I'm not reading, I feel like an aimless zombie. The emotions that the characters feel are boundless compared to what I can feel. I hate finishing a book. When that story comes to an end, I feel empty.

I ask myself, do I exist at all? Am I simply a container for these stories, these characters, these worlds in which to reside? I have seen more imaginary worlds than I have seen of this world I live in. I live more in my head than I ever have in this actual world.

Books manipulate me. I am not who I once was after I read them. Each one changes me ever so slightly. I can never go back to what I was before.

I used to think my book buying obsession was an unhealthy one. I've cured myself of the buying, but now I realize that the unhealthy obsession is the books themselves, not whether I possess them.

They possess me. Every now and then, a book will suck down my soul and won't let go. Nothing else matters. I am a slave to the book I am reading. Once I start, I cannot stop. Not for food, not for bodily function, not for sleep. Nothing else matters except that I keep reading. Rushing inevitably to the emptiness I will feel when it is done, and I look at the clock, and realize I have been reading all night.

Will I ever write a book that will compell someone to stay up all night reading it?

The Journey Continues (mine and my characters')

My name and title here?

I dreamt of Sally Prescott last night. I think she is feeling neglected after all this attention I've been lavishing on Diana and her Monsters. I promised her that I would edit her most recent adventure as soon as I'm finished my current project, but apparently she's getting impatient with me.

I'm not telling Sally that Diana hasn't been getting enough attention from me the past week or so, either.

I have been behind on my word count since the 12th.

That being said, I have managed to at least open the file and look at the words, if not write any, almost every day without fail. My characters are solidly in my head. I walk through the setting every day as I make my way around town, always noting details I can add in to flesh out the world. My mind works even as I sleep to make connections and fill plot holes, almost like the story is already told and my concious mind is just discovering it. My subconcious mind already knows it.

I've written more words on this story than I have for any story I've ever written. Even my two and a half Sally Prescott short stories don't equal where I'm at with Monsters. I may still be sloshing my way through the Bog of Doom (and believe me, I've gotten lost in there a couple of times), but I know that I will make it to the end. I have about 15,000 more words to wrap up my story. I'm starting to worry that might not even be enough.

Sometimes calling myself a writer seems so ridiculous. But after spending my whole weekend reading, I sat down to my own novel on Sunday night and I realized that I am actually writing a freaking book.

Me. Writing a book.

I know that's the goal as a writer, but to actually have a nearly finished manuscript that will actually be book length...is completely surreal to me.

Now whether this book is any good, or will ever be published, only time will tell, but when this story is finished and I've reached my 90,000 words, I can say that I've written a book.

I just might be able to do this.