You know you got the writing fever when there’s nothing else you want to do. The sun can shine and the trees can sway and the air outside can have that perfect spring smell but you want to stay inside with your laptop. Work can pile up and dishes can mount in the sink and laundry can overflow till the whole domestic scene seems fit to convulse into madness, but like some 19th century opium freak in his squalid den you sit back and gaze into the middle distance, envisioning people and worlds that never were. Your body can ache and your fingers can burn and your forearms can swell and your tendons twang but yet you type and type and type heedless of comfort or the pops that sound when you shake your wrists out.

Writing fever.

There’s a whole world in here waiting for me to explore. You know that infinite world theory that that physicist came up with to explain the possibility of multiple dimensions, and the hoopla is caused when the public found out? Hell, ask any writer about many world theory and all you’ll get is a knowing gleam in their eye.

Writing. Is there anything more fun, more absorbing, more terrible and grand? Is there anything that can make you feel more humble, more elated, more nervous or heartsick or tremulous or fierce and angry?

If you’ve got the writing fever, than 1,000 words aren’t enough. Hammering out 10,000 in a day won’t cut it, because as soon as you stop and lie down, kill the lights and pull the sheets up to your chin, your mind begins to spin spin spin and worlds come floating out of the void, peopled with the mad and in love, the jealous and the strange, the violent and the broken, the joyous and the wicked. Villains, heroes, the mediocre, the craven, the good the bad and the whole bleeding panoply inbetween.

There ain’t no cure for writing fever. Even heartbreak and loss spurs you on.