I write every day. Yep. Every. Day. It’s not a compulsion as much as it’s a passion – something I want to do, something that fills me up even as it empties something within onto the outer world. If you write, you know it takes stamina, something akin to running a 10k race, but mental. Of course body drives the mind, and I always eat a good meal before sitting down to “work.” (It’s not really work, even though it can be draining – something like playing a pick-up game of basketball.)
And there’s something about coffee (if you’ve figured this one out, please enlighten me) that seems to drive the mind-body link, making writing easier. I’m not in the category of Honoré de Balzac, who is reputed to have drunk up to two gallons of coffee a day, but a first and second cup are part of my writerly “calisthenics.”
Something happened to me some fifteen years ago – don’t know what, exactly – but I live with the whisperings of physical pain. Not enough to cause me to feel my age, but just enough to make sleep difficult. At night, I take meds for that. Strange thing, though – I don’t feel the pain when I’m deep into my writing. And in case you’re wondering, no, I don’t think I’m channelling Hemingway or some such, and no, I’m not in a trance or self-hypnosis state, insofar as I can tell. But writing, for all its other satisfactions, allows me a couple of hours respite per day from the dregs of pain.