It’s a burning desire, a need, a nagging obsession. People think I write because I like it. They aren’t wrong that I like it, but that’s not why I scribble fiction onto the page. I write because I have to. I write because I need to. I write because it’s the only way to feed the demons in my head; feeding them is the only way to make them stop wailing for nourishment. When they are yelling in there, they are all I can hear. I know feeding them only makes them stronger, but with them yelling, how am I supposed to get anything else done? It doesn’t even need to be good, all I have to do is write and they quiet down for a little while.
Thus, I continue to feed them and every time they demand attention, it is with a stronger voice. I see the trend. I know I’m setting myself up to be consumed, but what else am I supposed to do?