Sometimes long hours at the keyboard, the act of writing, feels like you’ve somehow released endorphins, like the endorphins runners talk about, the hormone that gets activated when they’ve reached a physical peak that flips running from a chore to an addictive mood altering endeavor that can’t be ignored. They say endorphins are the reason runners need to run every day. To feel that buzz, to get the jolt of goodness that makes you feel like there’s a reason for being. Sometimes writing can feel like that.
When the pistons are firing correctly, when the creative juices flow without obstacle, when you glance at the clock, then glance again only to learn most of your day has disappeared and you’re facing thousands of new words that have flowed from your fingers, that’s when it feels like I get a jolt of endorphins. Writing days like that are frickin’ awesome.
It doesn’t happen every day. Sometimes writing is like a hot poker in the eye. You see what you’ve just put to paper and you wince, recoil, wonder why you ever thought you could be a writer in the first place. I try to have a short memory about those kinds of days.
I’d rather run, be a runner, imagine my fingers are runners and they’re all grinding out mile after mile, releasing mini-endorphin jolts to my brain, dragging out the good words so that when I’m done, I’m breathless with how good the crap is that I’ve just written. That would be kinda cool.