There was a time in my life when I was basically puking out stories, just words and words and words. Every morning I'd wake up and sit down at my laptop, hair disheveled, hungry, and still in my pajamas. I'd think, "what is Lysa doing today?" and then the words would just fall out of my fingers. Forget eating, forget going to class. All that mattered was that I got the pictures out of my brain and into real life, where I could rearrange, edit, organize.

Some of you liked my writing and some of you got to know me and even liked me as a person. That was nice, validating even, since above all, writing for me was about making a connection. I wanted you to feel amused but scared when Arabella's body parts rotted off. I wanted you to feel wonder when Ren fell asleep and explored her world. I wanted you to feel devastated for Leila, wanted you to be nicer to people. Those stories are mostly gone now, and I'm not sure if there's anyone who even remembers those characters or those stories, but I remember.

I noticed that when I felt the compulsion to write, though, the rest of my life fell away. It became harder and harder to stay caught up in school or hang on to my social life. One of my friends, we can just call him B, tried to convince me it was all right. He was all "oh but some writers just have a calling" and maybe that's true, but some writers have a calling and they aren't even good at writing, and then it's just this wasteful… extravagance almost. What are all these words for, if I don't even like what I'm writing? Sometimes when I looked over drafts after a few hours of sleep, they didn't even make sense. Words, just nonsense words. Even the stories that made grammatical sense just DIDN'T WORK when I thought about it. Liberation Girl, for example, made no sense and was unnecessarily complicated. I could see the end, but I couldn't see how to get there without sacrificing my logic or sense of reason.

But I couldn't stop. My friends online would ask me to updateupdateupdate, but my friends in real life would frown and be like where. have. you. gone. Where have you gone? Where is your mind today? Why did you skip my birthday party baby shower wedding rehearsal?

Because I was sick, I'd say, and I imagine them rolling their eyes at that. Yeah, she's sick all right. I complained that my wrist hurt once, and my roommate stomped off and muttered something about carpel tunnel.

This is how a girl with an active social life and great gpa systematically destroys her life, if you were wondering. I became a slave to the writing, crawling out of bed at 4 a.m. because I had a new idea that wouldn't leave me until I spilled it all out. I was Pippa, always by bridges, always thinking the one thing I could never write down; I saw no future for myself.

This has been a fantasic year, actually. I'm actually on my way to a summer graduation, reconnecting with the friends I didn't totally cut off, and making new discoveries about my family every day. I'm picking my life back up, and I'm finding balance, but writing is this… I don't even know how to explain it. When I write, there is no balance or control, and that's probably why I haven't posted anything in months. I want to write. I think of stories when in my sleep, while I'm in the shower, on the way to class, and during every other waking moment. But then I put the idea in the back of my head and I keep on living, because I can't live and write at the same time, at least not yet. The only writing I do now is my diaries and journals.

So I'm posting this for a few different reasons. First of all, this is an explanation for my absence. Secondly, to know if anyone else suffers from the obsession like I do, and if you've figured out how to write in moderation. And finally because I write, and because I figured that even if I don't post stories, I can occasionally post diary entries here. Feel free to take me off your author alerts if you don't remember who I am or no longer care.