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Binge writing is a lot like binge drinking. It feels really good at the time. Uninhibited, freedom, no censor. You feel terrible the next day and you swear you’ll never do it again, but you do. Because you don’t respect yourself or you work enough for moderation or the discipline of showing up every day. You’d much rather gorge until you can’t do it anymore. Then you’re “tired” aren’t you? Too tired to work, poor baby. You did it to yourself.

The self-loathing alone should be enough to deter you (“You did it again”) but it’s not. It’s mixed in with enough of the regular stuff you can’t tell the difference.

You can’t stop once you start. Just one more note, it’ll be real quick. Just a few more lines. It’ll be fine. It’s pouring out of you like a bad wound. You’re over the limit. You don’t care—it feels great! You’re about to black out. Feels so good because you haven’t done it in forever. You should do this more often. Not to this extreme because you’d get really sick. But you should do this. You should.

But you’re sick the next day, so close to writer poisoning. Your head hurts and you don’t want to think of another word ever. You try a little hair of the dog, you try writing just a little something because you were a freakin’ genius the day before. Sometimes words tumble out and look good. Other times it’s like scraping an empty barrel. That’s when you get angry and don’t write. Because it’s writings fault, not yours.

But you write again because it’s in your blood. It affects all aspects of your life, relationships, and how you view yourself.

There is something in binge writing that gives me hope. I can do this. I binge write because I don’t allow myself to write on a regular basis. It’d be better for me and the people around me if I write on a daily basis and put systems in place to deal with inner critics and other censors.