The love for the craft

I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep bringing up that other Stephen King and his comments about writing before my own readers rebel, but I feel compelled to do it at least once more.  He said that writing is telepathy.  That the act in which I commit to paper, or in this case this blog, words which will in turn spur mental images on the part of the reader is somehow elevated, important, yet also as pedestrian as a day job.  And he's right.  On days when I feel I have the luxury to write, I compose wonderful prose at the pace of five to eight thousand words a day, which is monumental.  On days when I get home from a horrid day of work at nine o'clock at night and sit down to write because I feel I have to write something every day, I create stuff at a far, far lesser pace, and what I create may or may not be considered prose, much less wonderful prose.  And then I have evenings like this one, when I sit down with a great movie playing on the TV in the room and spend most of my time enjoying family and the story of the movie that is playing out, and kind of just write because I enjoy it.  I find it funny how, tonight, I wrote as much as I did in the previous two nights put together, and without realizing it.  Writing is really something you have to do, I guess, for the love of the craft.  That seems to be a lesson speaking to me from the stories of Stephen King, Danielle Steel, HP Lovecraft, et al.  It's a job, sure.  But the truly successful writers are the ones who can quit being writers for a while and just enjoy telling a great story.