All-consuming, a new novel is being written. He suffers from the usual issues. Eating is put off even though he’s hungry. His backside endures extended periods in a chair. Coffee cools, virtually untouched. Blog posts are thought of and dismissed. To converse with others means he must forcefully shift attention from the book to the people. He resents their intrusion.
The novel keeps hypnotizing him, drawing him in with its character, worlds, scenes, progression. He feels helpless. To resist the novel goes against everything he’s trained himself to do, because he wants to write.
He suffers; others suffer. It’s an odd conundrum because chasing words also exhilarates him. It’s the old writer’s curse.
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