It is a self-inflicted affliction of deadlines and time limits as the ego supersedes the superego of acknowledgement and affirmation. The dregs of cold coffee and the dust of tea leaves a quarter of the way to unfinished tea are indications of the mind that asserts its assault on the keys of the notebook. I doggedly chip away the hours pounding and tapping to be received in some strange way by an unknown audience and then realize that the placebo is procrastination which in turn is my jailer and words that entrap my mind enslave me to my passion.
It is a psychosis of the worst affliction as I waft on the wings of hope and helplessness. The acceptance of a manuscript which can set me off on the manic high of self infused adrenaline or the bipolarity of an extreme low on a rejection slip, and all of this based on opinion or the critique of one person; one person on the receiving of my manuscript who can elevate me to entitlement or drown me in my psychosis.
Writing is a bitch! No, perhaps it is plain prostitution! You literally sell yourself and your art to the highest bidder and become enslaved. There is no entitlement there. At the beck and call of publishers and marketers, it is all about pimping of the master, the mind and the market. There lies a piece of us in everything we write. I become dehumanized as I look into the soul of an art that is psychotic. My heart is undressed. I am naked in my self-doubt, impregnated with visions of success and aborted on failure.
There is no antipsychotic for this psychosis, the psychosis that runs so deep into social genetics it is viral.