Boy, when the need to write kicked in, it wasn't kidding.
No, I'm not talking about my psychological need to write, that's being amply taken care of these days, thank you. I'm talking about my actual obligation to produce written material.
Up until now, other than the annual madness that is National Novel Writing Month, my writing has been almost exclusively optional. I wrote because I loved to, and because I hope one day to make some sort of income from it.
All that changed in a week.
First, I joined the crew at DamnInteresting! This requires that I research and write two, roughly one page, articles a week. Fine, no problem. Good times all 'round. And yes they are. So far I have two articles up, two articles drafted, and another in the works. I'm having a blast with it. Better yet, the articles I have posted have been well-received, which is wonderful.
Then, a long-time friend and fellow writer asked me to collaborate on a novel with her. Wonderful! This is someone whose writing I admire very much, and who's ability to turn out high quality stuff in huge quantity astounds me. With any luck, collaborating with her will allow me to pick up a few of her habits myself. Plus it's a darned fascinating book.
Then another friend asked if I would be willing to function as an editor as she takes a high-level writing course. Since I already do this for yet another friend, this is perfectly fine and something I enjoy doing.
But I sit down to make my list of things to do today, and find I've got three mandatory writing tasks and an uncounted slew of slightly less urgent writing to do. When did this happen? It's not a bad thing; I'm not complaining. It's just very different from my writing life up until now.
I guess I get to find out if the life of a professional writer is for me. Now if only I can add in that income...