i have this like creativity gauge, i guess. or maybe it's more like a basin, spilling over the edges. i use it to pour words onto paper, and the more i write, the more its drained by my emotions. until i'm 90% into something and know it has to end soon, because i don't have much left to give. each book gets more transparent, leaves me more raw. and then there's my routine: finish a story, do a few thorough edits, go back to something i've written in the past to get my mind of it. and then somehow i find myself here again, itching for a keyboard. now what was that about a circle?
at this point i'm averaging about 4 books a year. sometimes i ask myself what it's all for, but i know. to have these stories at my disposal any time i want them, to have this sea of fantasy and escape... that's it - that's enough. that's what it's all for. that's all we really want, isn't it? to get away from the numbness of reality? to be provoked into emotion, real or imagined? it's why we set goals, or farm out resumes, or hell, even take vitamins. because we want the something better that could be out there. but see in a story it's there all the time. words on a screen: that's just all some of us need.