A bit over a year ago, I found myself recovering from major surgery. Normally I’m an active person who loves to take walks, but now I found myself bedridden. No ropes tied me in place though psychologically there felt like heavy vines knotted around me in a cocoon of warmth--the warmth, of course, being covers I tossed off then pulled back on me every ten minutes.
At first I tried reading. As a kid reading romances served as my favorite pastime. I could read an entire Sweet Valley High book in one sitting and then want another. I hadn’t read romances for awhile, but now I craved anything that would transport me away from pain. I asked my wife to bring me books, but each one I opened bored me. Those romances severed all the sweat, pain, ecstasy, fear, and excitement I felt from falling in love and still being in love. The characters all seemed like Barbie Dolls sanitized to the point of being a Disney princess. I wanted more, craved for more. Of course, the library limited what my wife could bring home to me, yet I yearned for an adult romance with fully functioning genitalia.
Before I had even finished the first book, an idea for a second and third started to percolate up from my unconscious and snare me with new character and plot potentials. Needless to say, I have not been able to stop writing since. I guess, as addictions go, writing is fairly harmless like my relish for coffee. Sometimes I mix the two and write at two in the morning which the cats are very fond of.
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