BrooksBlog: Writing and Its Sickness
Spent the last seven days being sick. The kind where you hurt all over, nothing tastes good, sleep is impossible because either you cannot get comfortable or you are coughing a lung out. Liquids help, but you can’t sleep or rest with a straw in your mouth. So you start thinking about stuff, and I started thinking about 35 years as a published author and 55 years as a writer period. How in the world did that happen? How did I write all those books? At least it explains why I got so old. But how much longer can I keep this up? Am I going to write myself into the ground, my family prying my cold dead fingers from the keyboard? Am I going to keep working at the same pace until I drop? Just about now, the publisher is having a heart attack. I just signed for 3 more books, and they expect me to continue on with no interruptions or delays until those books are done. But you guys wouldn’t mind if I took a few years off, would you? Traveled around the world, took it easy, finished up on Shannara in the next decade? Speculation, nothing more. If I quit writing and started hanging out, Judine would send me up to Silver Point, stand me up 2 steps from the edge, blindfold me and tell me to walk forward 3 paces. She knows what I’m like when I’m not writing, and it is not a pretty sight. Can’t help it. It’s part of my DNA. I have to write. I can’t not write. I am miserable beyond being sick or worn out or discouraged or anything when I am not writing. So I guess you are stuck with me awhile longer.