Jonesing

I'm jonesing. My heart is beating like a drum. I've got the cold sweats. My hands are shaking. I can't think about anything else. I need a fix!

Not for a drink. Not for a drug. For a book. I'm out. I used up my stash, and my wife, who is my enabler, didn't have time to pick up more. I admit it, I'm addicted, hooked, got Curious George on my back. Actually, my habit started many, many years ago. I can still remember my first book. The feel of it in my hands. The smooth cover, the anticipation of turning pages, the highs and lows it took me on as the words coursed through my eager young brain. This is Spot. See Spot run. Run Spot run. I didn't stand a chance. The more books I read, the more I wanted. And worst of all, reading books was only the gateway to the need to write them.

Fortunately I have the number for a literature crisis hotline. They have librarians standing by 24/7. But I won't rest easy until I have another book in hand.