You're exhausted writing but you continue to write. Over the years it's become an impulse, an obsession. You grow weak from scrawling on reams of paper and typing on the pc. You tack reminders to the wall, doors and the fridge. You tell yourself daily that if you don’t write you'll die. You do character expositions, chart lives, throw characters into explosive situations and watch them thrive. You think more about stories and imagined worlds than about the living.
When you get a coffee you wonder what certain characters would drink and if they chose an espresso over a latte what would that say about them and how their choice would affect their lives, perhaps opening doors and leading them on a journey that you never imagined was possible.