My husband is a compulsive writer. I think it's called graphomania or even scribomania. The obsessive impulse to write. He fills notebooks on a weekly basis. Our attic is filled with boxes of notebooks.
Lately, his supervisors at work have noticed how much he writes and have tried to limit it. It's driving him crazy! He has too many ideas. So he has to take "bathroom" break frequently with his notebook hidden in his shirt so he can get everything down. Ideas, songs, stories, fragments, lists, phrases. You name it.
A lot of our friends and relatives have said that James is quiet, but he's not. Not when we are alone. Then, instead of writing like a maniac, he talks to me. It doesn't even matter if I pay attention or respond –or keep up. He goes a mile a minute. If I were to take it all down, I could fill a notebook in an hour. I love this quirk of his and I think that as much as he writes and talks, it's not even the tip of the iceberg of his mental capacity.
I am really excited to see James doing so much research these days, putting his talents to better use than the drudgery of the factory work he does by day. I think that he is the next in line after Howard Zinn, Noam Chomsky and Michael Albert.
As his wife, I often find notes he's left for me, like a neurotic trail, the only way I can keep up with his rambling mind. To so many people, James is intense, that's what they all say. But to me he is sweet. Distracted at times, but always sweet.