09 December 2001 ~ "The addiction..."

I wrote: "...shit, if I write to you one more time from the freaking Belmar, you're going to start thinking I'm a lush. In fact, I'm not a lush, and here's the reason for that: I'm pretty sensitive to mind-altering chemicals, and I am absolutely unwilling to let them interfere with my real addiction."

Ladies and gentlemen, or whatever you are, I, Helena Thomas, am an addict.

You put me in front of the computer with an idea, and I'll kick, scream, howl, and cry until I'm able to finish it. And it's STILL not enough. Give me a pen and a paper, and it's like putting heroin to a junkie; the heroin's GOING to be gone when you get back, and the paper IS going to be written on.

Spent eight hours in front of the computer yesterday, working. Working? As though it's really hard labor? No, I wasn't working. I was indulging myself. It was like masturbation, only a thousand times better.

There's this giddy sound that rises up in my throat, this ecstatic moaning, sort of. My arms shake, my fingers tense up, I find myself embracing my shoulders with my arms and sort of squealing. I swear, there are minimal differences between writing -- REALLY writing, not mediocre stuff like letters and entries -- and sex. One is: writing is better when you're alone. Another is: I have not yet found a way to make my teeth tingle through writing. Alas.

It's the masturbation aspect of writing that I absolutely love. The long, pointless descriptions, the non-sequitur associations and similes, the restating of the same damned thing over and over again using new and beautiful words... Tom Robbins is a masturbator. Rainer Maria Rilke was a masturbator. Allen Ginsberg was a masturbator. Good gahd, of COURSE Ginsberg was a masturbator! Look at ANYTHING he's ever written! All those exclamation points!? Holy! this, Holy! that; that guy must have kept about sixty boxes of tissues by his desk!

["Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!" -- TELL me there's one inkling of a possibility that Al didn't have to wipe up his chair after THAT!?]

[Kerouac was not a masturbator. He was all like, "Then we sat. Then we listened to jazz. Then we stole some cars. Then I fucked a Mexican chick. Her skin was brown. La la la. I'm a boring motherfucker." For the life of me, I'll never understand how he and Big Gay Al over there could stand each other...]

Anyway, enough literary criticism; I don't know what I'm talking about anyway.

I sat down yesterday at noon or so, and for the next eight hours, shuddered, whimpered, reveled, whooped, giggled, and yelped, "YES! Oh GOD! This is AWESOME!"

My poor housemates. My poor NEIGHBORS.

It is an addiction. REALLY. It feels very, very good: physically, emotionally, mentally, EVERY way. I end up getting really, really worked up, and then really, really relaxed. I'm barely conscious of my actions during the act, and for a little while after. I can hardly be called responsible for my actions. If I'm ever on trial for some Bad Thing, tell the jury I was under the influence of a Paper:mate and a notebook. While writing, I forget to eat, I forget to shower, I completely neglect all basic physical maintenace. I forget to SLEEP! I LOOK like a junkie!

Seriously, though, while it IS productive in its own way, it's really not always all that healthy. I drift away from friends, I become totally antisocial, I don't take care of myself... But I really can't stop. It FEELS bad to stop. After a day or two, I start weeping and griping all the time. My mom warned me, from the time I was an adolescent, that I had the genes for addiction; a great number of my blood relatives have struggled with addiction in the past, or are still struggling with one. My mom was always afraid I'd get into the alcohol-and-pot thing like she did when she was my age. I think it surprises her when she realizes I just don't feel the urge to drink much, and I really sort of despise the effects of weed. But I've found my calling.

So, it's got its downsides, and I readily admit that I can't really control it, and it's done me near as much harm as good, yet, I STILL get pissed off when other people don't understand. When a housemate wanders up and asks, "hey, whatcha doin'?" and then stands there for twenty minutes staring at me. Or when somebody says, "hey, girlie, this is a bar; why are you writing in a bar?" Or when somebody says, "haven't you written ENOUGH today?" It makes my blood boil. It's not like I go out and ask people, "haven't you had enough beer for one night?" or "haven't you watched enough TV?" or "Are you sure this gambling thing isn't going to get you into trouble?" It fucken pisses me off that it's acceptable, almost EXPECTED, for certain people to be lushes, and other people to be potheads, and still others to be gamblers and sex addicts, but it's NOT okay for me to bring a notebook to a bar? It's NOT okay for me to sit at my computer for eight hours, typing?

I CAN'T put it down. I have a hell of a time putting it down, at least.

But you know what? It could be a HELL of a lot worse...

~Helena*