I imagined it had gone away for good this time, but no.
I mean, I welcomed the idea that it had gone. I’m living, I’m fully integrated into the world, all my energy is focused outward, I’m in love.
I only wrote anyway to hide from the world, to give myself an excuse to escape, a place to run to.
And after all, everything I ever wrote was a kind of attack upon writing anyway, an attack upon what was writerly within myself, which I associated with a kind of impotent dreaminess, a second order of existence compared to those who lived fully, who acted on their desires, who claimed a stake in the world.
But my desire was impossible and so I had to write.
Desire fulfilled, it should be banished, overcome, eclipsed.
And yet it’s back. The need to write fiction.
Oh yes, fiction. Nothing will satisfy like fiction. Nothing will exhilarate like the start of a novel, nothing frustrate you more than the middle, nothing release you more than the end.
I always thought it was despair that drove me to it, but it was love.
And like love it turns up at unexpected moments, at inconvenient times. But its call is undeniable.
You can love on many levels, then, it seems.
It seems life is rich in love.
I'm going inside now. I may be some time.