On November 30th, 2011, my desk melted from beneath my laptop.
This was not a normal occurrence.
Then, the clock on the wall stopped moving. The furniture dissolved into nothing. My entire apartment suddenly vanished and I sat alone, typing.
After an hour of work, I was only 3,000 words away from finishing my NaNoWriMo novel. I could really make it. This world, my world, was the only one that existed.
At 11:23 P.M. I typed two final words — THE END.
A moment of euphoria, then disappointment.
Disappointment because I realized finishing doesn’t make me feel powerful.
Melting into the work makes me feel powerful.
- When I melt into the work — I can ignore calls about overdue bills.
- When I melt into the work — I can be anything I want. I am a martian. I am an alien. I am a genius. I am a fool.
- When I melt into the work — I can stave off my inevitable insignificance for another moment.
- When I melt into the work — I can be selfish.
Over the past two years, I have created somewhere around 650 posts. Today, I wrote this post. Later, I will go to my kitchen and wash dishes. This afternoon, I will probably be scooping cat poop.
I write to escape reality. There are no two ways about it. I hate being finished with something because that means I must stop writing.
Truthfully, I am scared to slow down. What if nobody loves me without my writing? Where will I get my validation if not strangers on the internet?
In my own empty universe, I am all-powerful.
I am trying to carry some of that power to the real world, where there are real human.
So far, it’s going okay.