This may seem strange, or maybe not. I guess it all depends on the comments I get. Early in February of this year, I started writing a story. Up until the day I started writing, this was far from my ambition, and really still isn’t my ambition, other than to finish. I am not a writer and do not want to be. After six weeks I have over 230 pages written, and I have edited them to the point that they are presentable and I find the story entertaining to say the least. But the story is not the point of this post. How I felt as I wrote is what I would like to discuss. For the first 5 days, I woke up and began writing immediately(I had to because my head began to fill with story related information from the moment my eyes opened). Those 5 days went something like this: I wrote uninterrupted for 12hrs, 15 hrs, even 17 hours one day. I ate nothing till late at night, usually 9pm. It was not an uncommon experience in as much as I had on several previous occasions found that I had spent the whole day in a similar fashion when I would compose music, but those occasions only lasted for a day or two. I was driven to write this story, and nothing else I did, whether it was to turn on the TV, wash dishes, or try to read a book, nothing else distracted my mind. It was probably not even a good idea to drive actually. The characters and the story just kept playing out in my head and ideas would avalanche constantly from some part of my brain forcing me to scurry about no matter what else I was trying to do in order to make note of them before they disappeared or were buried by the next round of thoughts that just seemed to come out of nowhere. It was almost unsettling, but intriguing at the same time. I was buzzing inside as though I had ingested some type of stimulant, but I used no drugs or stimulants. Nevertheless I was experiencing an extreme feeling of euphoria. By the 6th day, a Sunday, I had worn myself out and stepped away to see if I was getting sick or had just run myself down. As I rested I tried to analyze the situation in order to resolve some issues that were troubling me. First I considered that maybe this could be a sort of bi-polar symptom, but while I was too tired and a little sad that I didn’t have the strength to continue, my enthusiasm was still strong. The next thing I considered was the possibility that I was deluding myself. I liked the story a lot, I liked how I was telling it, but like I have said, I am not a writer and really don’t want to be. I do want to finish this story, but I don't wish to write or think I will want to again. I decided that I would take the first 80 pages I had written and bring them to a friend who lived 220 miles away in Missouri. So on that following Tuesday I left early in the morning. He has a nice secluded place and he reads a lot. I explained my concern that I may be deluding myself and asked him to be objective an assess what I had written. I stayed two nights and then returned home, leaving the 80 pages with him. Nothing really changed, except that I had rested and ate regularly in a normal fashion. Both the drive there and back, and the time spent with my friend was a constant barrage of thoughts and ideas related to the story. I had to keep a pad of paper handy to make notes. Before returning home I shopped for snacks and food that was easy and quick to prepare so I could avoid the same exhausting pace when I resumed writing again. This worked, but I also had to resolve another dissonance that was plaguing me when I wrote. My cat who I was quite attentive to normally, seemed to be perplexed by my new routine, so I had to take occasional breaks to assure her of my affection. That first day of writing upon my return went smoothly as I incorporated these adjustments. The euphoria was still there and increased as I settled back in to writing. The next day when I woke up, with the usual 4 or 5 ideas crowding my thoughts, I went to boot up my PC and it was stone cold dead. Luckily I had backed up my work each night to my lap top, but the PC had so much information, notes from ideas and online searches, that it still felt like a disaster. I had to hold back everything, feelings and thoughts, to resolve this problem by taking the PC to be fixed, if possible. It felt like a pressure inside me was about to explode out of my chest. I arranged to bring it to the computer business and decided to run one other errand when I did bring it in. The other errand involved a close friend and when I contacted him, I found I had another unexpected and troublesome predicament to negotiate. He was upset with something I had done previously and apparently had been stewing over it. Within a couple minutes of speaking with him on the phone, he had told me he had a bone to pick with me and to not contact him again and hung up. Now this may not seem to be very significant, but the point is that I felt I needed to focus on the writing of this story. It was easy to accept the PC problem as it was out of my control at this point, but the unsettling thoughts of the damaged friendship were able to distract me quite often, till I decided that there had been a misunderstanding to which there was nothing more I could do except to respect my friends desire that I not contact him. He had handled his displeasure in a very immature fashion and all because of something he misinterpreted. I had played a part possibly poorly, but it was now also beyond my control. What was significant about these two events was that I was concerned that I was going to lose momentum, and possibly lose this euphoria that seemed to be fueling so much of the inspirations which seemed more often than not to be coming from outside of my consciousness. I continued writing in this curious state for a few more weeks. My friend who had read the first 80 pages told me he thought it was good and was eagerly waiting to read more, he even seemed excited. He had mailed back the 80 pages with some grammatical corrections and in a note praised several aspects of the story. The euphoria came back stronger than ever, and while I was eating, it was little and I lost 15 pounds. I usually could only manage to sleep for 3.5 hrs then I would resume writing for 7 hrs and sleep for another 3.5 again and that went on continually there after. Nothing I did resembled the days before this writing began. I found my silverware to be all mixed up, forks in the spoons, knifes in the forks section. The days of the week were a mystery to me, accept that I regularly mistook any day as the day I was writing about. On March 13th, in anticipation of having an over night guest for a few nights for a St. Patrick’s day get together, I had to step away again to clean my now neglected home. I also knew that it would be hard to entertain my friend and still be totally absorbed in writing, so I printed the 220 pages I had so far and sent them off to my friend in Missouri. My over night guest stayed for 4 nights. I did very little work on the story during that time. I sensed the drugged like euphoria subsiding and it worried me that I may lose this bewildering high octane fuel that seemed to be at the heart of my inspirations and enthusiasm. I thought it was a gamble, but could not tell my friend that this sudden freak ambition was more important than that he come here for what had been an annual event for us since I moved her 10 years ago. I was hoping to be through with this by the end of March. I understand that some books take very long to write, but also know that some just pour out in a matter of a few weeks for some writers. I still like what I have written and like how I intend to finish it. But here I am now and the Euphoria seems to have come and mostly gone. I can sit down and add to the story and still be surprised by what comes out of my head, in as much that I will wonder where it came from. Working on the lap top is much harder. My back gets tired and sore in three hours, while 12 hours on the desk top PC never hinted at making me uncomfortable. So the pace has slowed. It seems possible that the remaining text will require some additional skill in bringing the story and clues together in conclusion and in an acceptable fashion, one that pleases me and not just something forced to get the whole experience over with. Well if you have stayed with me so far, then here is what I am after. What happened? What was this euphoria? I buzzed and vibrated and tingled all over for weeks. It was though I was stoned but my senses weren’t dulled. Was it just adrenalin, endorphins or a mix of both, or maybe a chemical imbalance, or could it have been voices from somewhere else? Does anyone know what I’m talking about? Has it happened to you? Will it comeback so I can finish in the same way? And one more thought, could this be a reason why some artists end up resorting to drugs? To recapture this strange euphoric state that comes out of nowhere, so they can continue to create, or be inspired, or just feel so... alive?