"But I Don't Feel Like Writing,"

the author whines, and then she sits her butt down in the chair and she writes.

And writes.

And writes.

That has been my week.

Writing.

Not really wanting to but having to.

Not because I have a deadline or because I'm getting paid or because I want my career to continue.

But because I am compelled.

I must write. When I don't, I become grumpy and irritable. When I don't, I feel as if a part of myself is missing. When I don't, I am not as relaxed as I think I should be.

Writing, after all, is work. Being away from work should make me happy.

But it doesn't.

Because my work stems from something inside that I cannot put words to. It is an obsession, a passion, a need.

Which sound really strange and slightly off.

But it is what it is.

I was a strange kid. A bookworm. An imaginative child. The kid who sat in the back of class and daydreamed about other worlds and other lives.

Now, I am a writer, and my dreams come to life on paper. Those other worlds and other lives take wing as my fingers move along the keyboard. My writing isn't always good, and it is seldom great, but I still write.

Word after word after word.

Until a page is done and then a chapter and then a book.

It has occurred to me that true success in writing must lie in the author's obsession with the craft. How else do we force ourselves to do what we don't feel like doing? How else can we possibly tend to all that needs doing in the real world and then, when we are exhausted and needing a break, turn our attention to our characters and their worlds?

So, I don't feel like writing, but I will.

It is, quite simply, who I am.