Over the last few days, I've been taking every opportunity I could to write. The reason for that is that I estimate I'm within ten pages of finishing the first draft of my second manuscript. I can see the end in sight and it's all I can do to go to bed at night because I'm ready for it to be finished.
It's not an I'm-sick-of-this-and-want-it-to-be-over-with thing. It's an excitement that I will soon have a complete, albeit preliminary, story. I know the first draft is just the beginning and I have months of revisions before it's really ready for publication, but this is the first major milestone toward that ultimate goal.
I did the same thing with my first manuscript. I kept up a pretty decent pace over the spring and early summer, but when I realized I was within two or three chapters of wrapping it up, all I could think about was finding time to write. I skipped activities, I ignored house and lawn work, I even skipped meals--and if you know me personally, you know how significant that is.
I think that's when I realized I was a writer, not just someone who liked to write. It borders on a compulsion, even an addiction. Like those addicted to other substances, I can manage it most of the time, but once in a while it becomes an aching need, a hunger that just takes control, to the detriment of all my other responsibilities.
At least this is an addiction that won't rot my teeth or destroy my liver. Who knows, I might even lose some weight if I skip a few more meals.