In moments of despair, I picture
myself creeping into our community centre, coat collar turned up, hoping not to
be recognised. In my imagination, I am looking for the meeting room where the
local branch of Write-a-holics Anonymous
meet. But the meeting gives me no comfort.
“My name is David,” I tell the assembled group, “And I am a write-a-holic. It is now two hours since I had my last fix. I must now get back to my computer in order to work on my latest story.”
“A hopeless case,” I hear the group
leader say as I slink away. “He doesn’t even try to overcome his addiction.”
“Is there any cure?” someone asks.
“Could he have an amputation of his computer on the NHS?”
I glance back and see the leader shake
his head. “They won’t do it. They’re afraid of the side effects. Amputees sit
at empty desks tapping their fingers on the bare wood. They stare at the empty
space where their monitors once sat. Occasionally, they can be heard to
whisper, ‘My hard drive has crashed,’ as they fingers search for a non-existent
mouse.”
The problem with us write-a-holics is
that we show a complete disregard for our families and friends as we throw away
our waking hours. We have to go with the compulsion to increase our word-count.
Or book-count. Last year I had six novels published. This year I have completed
five brand new novels. Five complete novels! And yet my addiction is in no way
assuaged. I must write more and more.
I blame it on the pushers. Writing
Magazine is one of the worst offenders. It encourages us in our habit. It holds
out possibilities of fame and fortune if we keep on writing. We know that there
never can be such a magical outcome to our addiction, but we convince ourselves
to keep going: just one more novel, just one more fix. We reach a ‘high’ as we
type in the final words and then we know we have to go on, we have to look for
an even greater ‘high’ with the next book.
There is no hope for us.
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