He is probably right. I have indeed become a fiend, an addict, stubbornly, selfishly looking for ways to please myself. I indulge myself with coffee and tea, with music and dancing, with writing and reading. Sometimes it is only my imagination that makes me delusional, unrealistic, illogical and irrational. But in a world of harsh realities, I selfishly find happiness in being irrational, in being a spoiled, little caffeine fiend.
In a writer’s imagination, stories happen, amazingly woven stories that become too tempting to resist, too tempting to let go of. Perhaps my addiction is to what I like to call my imagination, to the dreams that I am forced to abandon once awake.
No one has told me to stop imagining and I refuse to stop. I will continue to live with my addictions, my imaginations, my world of irrationalities. And I will write because I am an addict.