Here’s The Exact Moment You Know You’re a Writer And It’s Not Pretty

You wake up out of a strange, unsettling dream and stare at the ceiling. You recall a dripping sound from an unknown source. That sound, you remember — your foggy head is still half in dreamland — it wasn’t a drip. It was more of a tap. Tap, tap, tap. You realize it’s the sound of your fingertips tip-tapping on your keyboard late into the night, and sometimes into early morning, right before the birds wake up. While the blue twilight filters into your room, you finally close your old and crusty eyes — crust only a writer can have.

The writing process is haunting you, you realize. You are haunted by visions of words, publications and phantom book deals. Once night starts scattering its stars across the sky, your fingers start to twitch. Your heart starts racing. You need to write. You need to write right now.

Okay, ‘need’ is a strong word, you think to yourself. You try not to use it often. Everyone is always accusing you of dramatics. Writing isn’t water or air after all, is it? IS IT?

Your right pinky twitches. That pinky loves pressing the shift bar any chance it gets.

When do you start counting the hours of sleep? Is it the time your head hits the pillow, or when your brain has expelled all of the ideas on a Google document or that stupid writers…