I… I wrote a thousand words in less than an hour. How did I do that? How did my fingers move so fast?
I felt like I do during Nanowrimo, like I just needed to get it all out as fast as I could. As if nothing mattered except having the narrative exist outside of my brain. Like lightning in my hands, like the keyboard couldn’t respond fast enough.
The world sparkles when that happens. Everything fades but the screen and the keys and the sound of tapping and the feeling of the letters springing into life at the cursor. Almost religious, really. I’ve always said that writing doesn’t make me happy, per se; it’s hard to explain how I feel, but it doesn’t make me happy the way that breathing doesn’t make me happy. It’s just something that I have to do. I’m compelled to write, in order to exist.
What does make me happy is when I read over something I wrote and realize that yes, it is good. That it can make me cry, or bring me joy, or evoke all the feelings that I felt as I relive the scene in my imagination. I like to know that I can do this, that my work has merit and quality beyond myself. I want it to sparkle for other people, not just for me.
Yes, even knowing that not everyone will like it and all that. It’s just a thing. I live in the hope, possibly the vain hope, that more than ten people will read my work and honestly like it.