Every vacation, I tell myself, This time will be different. I make big plans to relax, recharge, and maybe squeeze in some writing. But, without fail, my version of “relaxing” becomes waking up at 3 a.m., sometimes 5 a.m., and writing until late evening. I dive headfirst into my projects, and while I enjoy the thrill of creating, there’s a madness to the process—a kind of self-imposed chaos.
The early mornings are exhilarating, those hours when the world is quiet, and it’s just me and the story. But as the days stretch on, self-doubt creeps in like a shadow. Is this good enough? Will anyone care about this world I’m building? The worries feel like an undercurrent to the work, a hum I can’t quite silence.
And yet, I push myself harder. I isolate, I immerse, I go overboard, chasing that moment of finishing. It’s both amazing and maddening—the act of creating something out of nothing, stitching characters and conflicts together, and then watching it all unfold. But the process is as tedious as it is thrilling. Each word feels like a small victory and a weight at the same time.
Then comes the void. The moment I finish a project, I want to live in that story a little longer, savor it like a dream I’m not ready to wake from. But the whip cracks again—a force inherited from my father, and his father before him. We’re all workaholics, driven by this relentless need to move forward, to create the next thing, to never stop.
It’s a rocky path, this mix of joy and conflict, but at the end of every project, I hope it pays off. I hope the worlds I’ve poured myself into resonate with others. Because while the madness of writing may consume me, knowing that someone out there might connect with what I’ve created makes every early morning, every doubt, and every moment of exhaustion worth it.
Rosemary Draven 