I m having one of THOSE mornings again.
Or maybe it’s not a morning, but an accumulation of frustration after weeks of not writing. Writing is 98% of what I label as my beloved Work Addiction. And the reason I don’t allow myself to indulge in what Kat Loterzo would call my “drug of choice” is that I m pretty certain that ten years of “writing”, which includes my yoga business where I have increased my online presence over the past years, that my writing slash work addiction is the drug that has kept me from having the thin strong lean body I used to have when life was simple.
When I lived offline.
Had a diary.
An occasional boyfriend.
And that was it.
I did not have the urge to write about everything with the urge, and to the extend, as I later had. My writing was CONTAINED.
And now it is UNLEASHED.
Something that comes with working for hours without eating (and then your body immediately storing everything as fat, not knowing when its next meal will come); it comes with missing practice, because you wake up with that ITCH you need to soothe, that itch to work work work. To write write write. And then MAYBE if you’re having a good day? At three or four pm, then MAYBE you will turn off the computer and do some yoga before you start your evening of teaching yoga.
Make that once a month or so.
So when a couple of weeks ago, I decided I was done being two stone heavier than before I started writing, and that from now on, I would beat the craving to work, and calm down and do yoga instead. And not just any yoga but a powerful, challenging practice, that has the potential to restore my youthfulness and size 6 figure alike.
Except it did’t work. It doesn’t work. I m hardly practicing yoga and now I m so dying to write that after every social event, and every time I see my lover, after every deep personal insight, I feel I ve eaten a 7 course meal without being able to digest it.
I feel bloated from all the things that happened and that I m apparently just supposed to carry with me.
I ve never felt like a normal writer. When I hear about normal writers they can have writer blocks, or try a new genre, or somehow seem to be CONSCIOUSLY INVOLVED in what they write!!
Even Carry Bradshaw, the columnist from Sex and the City, whose photo I use with my columns, even she only writes because she’s paid to do so. You never see her diving into her secret “Red Shoe” diaries to really spill the beans on boundary breaching sex with Mister Big.
Other writers seem to have a CHOICE whether they can write.
And I don’t know why I keep thinking that being one of them is an option for me.
Probably my desire for a petite 19 year old body, that got the better of me.
The only person who I KNOW, and I say this in capital because that’s how she writes, the only person I KNOW who knows exactly how I feel is Kat Loterzo.
She describes it as;
You simply can’t NOT (write, do the work, UNLEASH).
“Let the message be the message. However it wants to come out. Get out of your own way!”
Because that’s the BEST thing about being held hostage by your writer addiction, by being pinned down by all the stories that want to be told through you and then they let you go for 12 hours before they tie you down to your computer again;
The stories are already there.
You don’t have to DO anything.
You only have to sit there, and write and write, until those little devils, demons, angels, lovers, children, muses, and the spirits of your ancestors are satisfied and let you go.
It was so naieve of me to think I could bypass them. And that not being a writer addict was even an option. Because the difference between a normal sane writer, and me, Kat Loterzo and every other haunted writer is pretty simple;
Either we write.
Or we die.
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living