It's Not You, It's Me

Before I starting writing I had real life friends. I wanted to go out to dinner and shopping. I wanted to get out of my house and breathe fresh air. I enjoyed their company and looked forward to anything they wanted to do. What happened, you ask?

Writing happened. Imaginary friends happened. Drafting and revising and drafting again happened. Now all I ever want to do is write. I think about my characters all day long and live for the moment I kiss my children good night so that I can perfect their story. I sneak a few paragraphs here and there throughout any day that I can, but most days I can't get anything considerable done until my children are fast asleep. This means the nighttime hours are my writing time. And my writing time is very, very valuable to me. So much so that I get annoyed when I have to leave my house to do something else. (I know it's horrible. I'm ashamed.)

But it's like I'm possessed. I have this undying, unwavering, unending need to finish this book. I absolutely have to do it. And when I'm away from my characters, I'm not even enjoying myself because all I can think about is how much time I'm wasting NOT writing. As I said before, I'm not proud of this. I know it's not fair to the real life friends. So I've decided to write them this letter, this formal apology for my lackluster friendship skills as of late:

Dear Real Life Friends,

It's not you. It's me. Honest. I have a disease, an addiction to something you can't yet see, but is entirely real inside my head. I hear voices. These voices are telling me a story and I can't seem to rest until I've written down every word of what they have to say. I know this must sound ludicrous and maybe even a little nutso, but it's true.

I know that you're wondering what happened to your spontaneous and exciting old friend, and well, I just wanted you to know that I'm still here. Somewhere inside of me is still that same friend that you know and love, she's just a little possessed at the moment. It's not that I don't enjoy your company. I do. Or at least, I did. But I know, just know with all my heart, I'll still love your company once I finish this book. I swear it.

I just need a little space right now. Some time to work things out in my head would really be helpful. I hope you can forgive me. I promise to come back to you someday. Just...not right now. I still have 66 pages to revise. And then I'll probably revise it one more time for good measure. But one day in the future, I'll show my face again. Honest. 

Truly,

Your Dear Old Friend

Do you think that will earn me forgiveness? If not, maybe a little funny from one of the most hilarious shows of all time will help?