You have to love writing. You have to or else you never get it done. Other things get in the way of writing, like eating, sleeping, working, and fucking. The longer the story, the greater the commitment required. Writing some days is less a hobby and more of an affair that consumes you.
I find myself getting up earlier and earlier to be alone with my story. I think about my story all day long, fantasizing about the next part. If my plans to write are delayed by interruptions, I become unbearable frustrated. It’s an obsession. The closer I am to the end of a story, the more I look at my schedule to see where I can squeeze an extra moment or two with my story.
And when I do find the time to write, oh my Goddess, is every second a wonder. Time slips away faster than any analogy you could come up with. I bang away at my keyboard, trying to cram every thought into the page while at the same time trying to do it right so this precious time isn’t wasted. It’s a day of anticipation that climaxes in a frenzied burst of writing.
Just like in real affairs, it’s over too soon. Real life demands your time. Commitments that pay the bills drag you away from your love. You try to squeeze in one more line, one more paragraph or finish the scene like a couple would steal one more kiss. You try somehow to make that last piece of writing so special that it will sustain you till the next time you can write. It never works. Within the hour you’re already looking at your day, trying to figure out what you can skip, avoid or outright ignore in order to get back to your writing affair.