When the creative is compulsive.

So I finish "Shadows Over Summer House." I tell myself to take a week off, or longer, recharge my batteries, make sure whatever project on embark on is the one I want to see through.

Hell, I'm still doing a final read-thru, not even done.

Wake up this morning with a "Tale of the Thirteen Principalities."

The story of Moregone, a land not so much forgotten, as simply not remembered. 1000 words later, I'm tickled. It's fun and a little funny and intriguing.

So much for giving myself a break. This seems to be my pattern. I can't let more than a day or two go by without writing something. I'm not forcing it, it just happens. It doesn't even matter if it goes anywhere, as long as it is creative.

What's really weird is that I managed to spend 25 years running Pegasus Books telling myself that the world didn't need any more books, that no one would miss my books, that all is vanity, all is forgotten in the long run.

All true.

But...once I came back, I've been compulsive, the need to spin words just overtakes me.

I've written a blog for about 12 years now, and for the first six years or so it was a creative outlet for me. Not fiction, but still words. It probably even spurred me to writing fiction, as the compulsion took hold.

So whether my books sell or not, of whether anyone read me or not, it doesn't really matter.

The compulsion to be creative is overwhelming.