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25,000 readworthy, printworthy, respectable and even sometimes on-the-cusp-of- "literary" words. It's not inspiration; it doesn't meet the criteria for "intense" or "driven." It's Compulsion, capital "C"gotta do it!pure and simple. When I put enough of those days and nights together, eventually I'll get "those magic 300,000 words that will cheat death," as Thomas Wolfe described Look Homeward, Angel.

My bi-polar "imbalance" puts me in some pretty distinguished company: Poe had it, and Mark Twain had a severe case of it; the British Poet Laureate Wordsworth not only served as the textbook example of it, but his poetic autobiography could be the textbook for it. If I eventually gain some distinction as a writer, I doubt that it will come in spite of my biochemical imbalance. I very strongly suspect I will earn some distinction because of my problems with serotonin re-uptake and a bunch of other endocrinology I'm too busy surviving really to understand

I use my bi-polar disorder to excuse my need to swim every day. That's rightnot wish or desire, but absolute need. Ask yourself, just hypothetically: Would Michael Phelps own all those gold ornaments if he did not have ADD? Same biochemistry. Same mandate. Just like I gotta write, I gotta swim. They built-in those features at the factory, and if I don't use em, I'll invalidate my factory-certified warranty. Manic, I need to swim and write away all that excess energy, keeping myself not only fit but also fit for human companionship. Depressed, I need to get moving, or I will become a statue of myself, a fixed and frozen figure permanently mounted in my office chair. Beyond catatonicossified. Little kids will walk by and rub my belly for good luck. Not the way I would choose to become a landmark, thank you very much.

"Moderate to severe bi-polar disorder with depression dominant," beats all the other excuses by about seven car-lengths in second gear. It dominates.

And it explains.

My diagnosis serves as my most useful tool for analyzing my own behavior. "Please excuse my uncontrollable weeping," I plead for your indulgence. "I conscientiously have examined my entire life, finding absolutely nothing wrong and a lot that's good, but I keep crying anyway. It's biochemical, but I still need a Kleenex, please." I'm not defiant by nature; but, sometimes, my moods defy me. When the moods contradict my circumstances, I take time-out and examine: what's going on? I inquire relentlessly. When it all defies rational explanation,

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