Let’s talk about writing.
How do I live thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love writing the way some people love breathing. And that dopamine release is REAL. Like a cocaine craving on a jaded brain. Except.
I despise cocaine.
That seems to be an exception.
A lot of folks love cocaine. Or, rather its effects on their brain.
When I’ve finished writing something, my central norepinephrine spikes.
The increase further elevates chemicals associated with memory in the presence of new stimuli. Similar to a scientifically observed cocaine craving.
My art is not imaginative, because it’s reality based.
It’s really happening.
Not usually me.
I flush out portions of my people, sure—in the same way Stephen King writes about frustrated English teachers or struggling writers—it’s what I know.
BTW, King wrote #Carrie with tampons up his nose, quelling cocaine nosebleeds. Plugging it up. Fun fact: he doesn’t even remember writing some of his novels. Drug fueled disassociation is also REAL.
Separating the artist from the art is why we study literature. Otherwise, it’s all that old saying about assumptions.
And nobody like those.
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