Writing is running away or — wait — writing is like running away. Okay, I'm too busy escaping through the door to be sure which.
The compulsion to run has always been with me, as natural as picking scabs and torturing little brothers. I still fight the impulse daily. Sit down at the desk. Do not move. DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. Much as Lysander in A Midsummer Night's Dream plots to whisk Hermia to his Aunt's house on the outskirts of Athens, I too am on the permanent look out for a bolt-hole.
Know of any nice houses on a Greek island I can borrow?
I could try changing my name to Adrasteia which means "not inclined to run away," but it also has the mirror-meaning of "inescapable," and there is the paradox of writing: all stories are a form of running away, but getting there — to run with the story, to venture far into invented, fabricated territories — can only be done whilst sitting still. True, you might walk or cycle or swim as you imagine your ...