Well, I have been writing, in case you wondered, writing like mad. My fingers can barely keep up with the thoughts that tumble from my mind. I only realize how much time has passed by the stiffness in my neck and back when I pause to let the dogs out. There's a problem, though, and this is it. No one can ever read the words that have spilled from me. Trust me. They are too private, too intensely personal to ever share with anyone else. I know this, and yet I keep writing. I want to keep writing. It feels like I need to keep writing. The pleasure I derive from this writing is deep and satisfying.
So, here is my question. This must happen to other people all the time. What do they do with these very private thoughts once they have poured them out? Is it just some sort of blockage that needs to come out first before I can write anything else? Or do these dreams and longings form the foundation on which a fictional character is built? If that is the case, won't everyone know that its me there on the page? Or is that the point of it all?