Writing and breathing

A reader of my blog commented that I seem so busy all the time that writing for me must be as effortless as breathing. Yes and no. Certainly my mantra is "I write, therefore I am." The mind is most often engaged in writing, to be sure, and even when I'm not actually pounding the keys or scribbling on paper, I'm likely brooding about a character or story point. So yes, this results in a lot of words on paper. But there are trade-offs and disadvantages to what amounts to an obsession as well. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they are. Indeed, in my Moliere play, I have the great playwright articulate the problem:

I often play the cuckold on stage, don't I? So maybe I'm just practicing. That's what we live for, isn't it? Perfecting our parts? Fine-tuning our roles? I know I haven't given you much attention lately. I mean, you're right, our life is a rehearsal. My life is a dress rehearsal for a play. Even now, as I hear myself talking, I wonder where I'll be putting this, in what future scene in what future play I'll be standing before someone like you, perhaps before you yourself, the actress, and I'll be the actor, and we'll be talking — in some play, some day — much as we are talking here now. Because that's what my life seems to be, a dress rehearsal for a play. Which, strictly speaking, doesn't really make my life much of a life at all, does it?

This is why my memoir of the writing life is called Dress Rehearsals.