There is no other word like giddy. Happy? Gleeful? Cheery? No. Excited? Pleased? mmm…no.
For the first time in a long time, I got to spend almost the entire day writing. Not staring at the page, but writing. The feeling I used to get when I was 18 and spent a few minutes talking to my first love–it feels like that. I hope that doesn’t mean heartbreak is imminent. It does, doesn’t it?
NO! Don’t take this away, too.
So, I went over a scene I’d written and–sorry for being an egomaniac–but I laughed and clapped for joy. Such a rush! Such joy! Yes, it may well be dangerous to fall in love my own words (bad writer!), but I did it anyway, and I was giddy. Giddy, I tell you. This is why I write–that giddy, spastic feeling of love for those words on the page. This is my dance of joy. This is great.
Sigh. Why doesn’t this happen more often?
Probably because we can’t take the heartbreak. Kind of like when that first love admits that he’s got a fiance, your words can show themselves to be not what you thought.
Do you admit to loving something you wrote, or do you fear looking like a fool for showing a passion that everyone else can see is meant for someone else?
Well, I love what I wrote today, and if it calls me at four o’clock in the morning to tell me I’ve got it all wrong, I’m not answering the phone.