Continuous Creative Obsession

I’ve long known that visual artists are well along the insanity spectrum, being married to one and counting many among my friends. In particular photo-realists, whose works fill me with anxiety for their crazy obsessive souls. But what about writers? I’d never tarred us with the same brush (Love that dead metaphor; I’m painting you in slimy grime.) Of course, I know many eccentric writers, and many poets seem quite strange…but we are articulate. Oh yes, we can string a sentence together. However I am confronted recently by our particular craziness. My current writing community has recently been flooded with introspects; gently friendly but busy building worlds of the fantastic. Good ones too. My little magical realist flashes now seem quite rooted in reality, as I suppose they should be. And I get it, that world building, that concept of an epic eight book series, those thousand pagers; they are the equivalent of the photo-realists, they frighten me with their intricacy, with their accuracy, with their obsession. But they have what photo-realists don’t, tonnes and tonnes of creativity. If I’m honest too I’m jealous. Like my visual artist circle these people have continuous creative obsession, which I only ever have in waves.