This loss of purpose and vacancy we writers feel if we aren't a perpetual sally port of our otherwise stifled creativity is a twisted addiction to the written word.
Or, just plain insanity.
Scarcely three weeks have passed since I ended a six month marathon rewrite and while my personal and professional commitments demand that I breathe, regroup, think about some immediate career issues, and get through all the preparations and bombardment of superfluous chaos that accompany the middle son's high school graduation, I find myself sketching character notes in the middle of the night.
The clock says 4:00 a.m. It's flashing at me. Shut up, clock. I know I need to sleep. It's reminding me that tomorrow is a busy day. I have a couple of job related things to do, gotta go vote in the local elections, got a lawn to mow, housecleaning to do , miscellaneous repairs to make, birthday gifts to buy, and a list of stuff to make sure the boys get done. What's the use of having sons if you don't make them clean the shed and paint the front door?
Shut up, already.
It doesn't know there's no rehab for writers.