Writing is an Addiction

"Working too much is going to kill you," was scrawled on the inside cover in foreign handwriting.

Kean stared at the lettering, trying to remember who had left him that note. A bald eagle sat in the tree outside his window, still, silent, majestic. He thought he should probably be dead if that statement carried any weight. Thinking of all the time he had wasted attempting to get the right word or a sentence to sound good. The hours he had looked at one thesaurus or another.

He was no longer engaged with the writing. But he was addicted to it. Any day he tried to skip the work, his skin scrawled and his head ached. The pounding heart and faintness were the worst. There was nothing he could do but sit down and type something, even if it was not good.