Trapped by my genius.

This is going to sound like a silly complaint.

How do I put it?  I feel trapped by my creative urges.

Around 7:00 last night, after spending 8 hours in front of the computer, I felt like I was in prison.

When did writing become a burden?

Here's the thing -- the creative flow keeps coming.  I darn't turn it down.  After 25 years of getting nowhere, after struggling with ideas after my first 3 books in the 80's, this creative energy is somewhat of miracle.

So I took it and ran with it.

Three years later I'm in an intensive rewrite of a book that I think could be good. I have some time constraints and I have some opportunities.

The opportunities are what I set out to achieve 3 years ago -- so it would be pretty stupid to blow it now.

But this book along with my other "responsibilities" (finished and unfinished books) means that the rest of this year is going to be spent in front of a computer screen. This is the endgame -- or an endgame of sorts. Crazy to slack off now. 

Part of the problem is that I spend as much time in rewriting mode now as I do first draft mode, and rewriting is a chore. 

It has to be done. I've seen enough feedback to know when the rewriting has been noticed and when it hasn't. Basically, it is always noticed, it is always an improvement. It is what makes a book better -- maybe what makes it good.

So there is no fucking choice. So I wrestle with it day after day.

I've never been a terribly outgoing person, but this is a bit much even for me.

I do need to get back to walking in the wilds. This is the one activity that I can do to get out of the house that doesn't disrupt the creative flow, may even enhances it. I burn off some nervous energy, and I refresh the brain.

I need to keep my eye on the prize. The good book.