In many ways, being a writer is like being an addict. For an addict, it is difficult, if not impossible, to quit. They relapse. When they don’t have their fix it still occupies their mind. And even when they aren’t using they are never really “cured.” Once an addict, always an addict.
Writing, at least, isn’t as destructive as say, heroin abuse, and in rare cases it might even lead to fame and fortune. It might lead to long stretches of being alone or ignoring those around you or obsessive thoughts about particular paragraphs and sentences when a person should be thinking of more practical things like not putting the milk into the pantry.
I have tried to stop writing and have been unsuccessful. I kept going back to it like a smoker hiding in the shed, just a few paragraphs to get them out of my head, even though this piece will probably never be picked up by a publisher, or will maybe get very far with a very good publisher only to be turned down, like my first work of literary fiction. And two years later all those paragraphs have added up to what I consider to be my best literary work yet, one created for no other reason than that I simply cannot help myself.