You know, writing sometimes is like being addicted to crack. I find a story that I really like and I obsess about it. I want to write about it, like a monkey tugging on a chain that only gives out a bit of cocaine 1% of the time. I want to write about it, and then write some more. I want to ignore things like sleep, eating, and if I could, breathing because it just takes too much away from my obsession with writing. I find myself being drawn back to that chain, hoping for one more fix of writing. The time spent driving to work? Wasted! Wasted when I could be writing. Sleeping? Bah, who needs sleeping, I want to write. Spending time with Fluffy? Wast... um, no, she'd hurt me if I stopped that. But, eating, eating I can give up. Right?

Then, there is this specific point. It happens on day 16 for the last three novels, when I'm become a sad little monkey on the edge of a stool, hanging on to the broken chain I've managed to snap off, and can't seem to figure out why it won't give me the good stuff anymore. Occasionally, I'll jerk it, but no more drugs, no more random chance of a high, no matter how hard I do, I drained the coffers of all my words and the supernatural psychology experiment is still trying to get their budget renewed on giving writing monkeys crack for words.

I'm a sad monkey today.