This past Saturday, I busied myself with those necessary evils known as household chores. As I vacuumed, laundered clothes and performed various other unglamorous duties, a feeling of unease blanketed my aura like a Snuggie. Knocking out so much housework should've made me feel great; however, try as I might, I couldn't shake the disquieting feeling, and by the time my head hit the pillow, I was mildly agitated (my husband may disagree on the adjective here).
A few more honey-do items loomed over my head on Sunday, and being Ms. Anal Retentive, I needed to scratch the remaining tasks from my list like a bad itch. After another laborious but extremely productive day, I finally sat down to write around 4:00 PM. As my fingers danced atop the keyboard, a thought jolted into my brain as if wired by a set of jumper cables. A neon billboard flashed inside my skull, basically telling me I was a jackass for not realizing this sooner--my discomfort, still present on Sunday, wasn't from a sour mood or a bout of PMS; it was from writing withdrawal.
For me, writing has transcended its namesake and become a hungry little monster. Feed it, and it's happy. Starve it, and it will eat you alive. So, my new prescription is simple--a daily dose of writing (large or small). After all, I prefer to feed the beast, not poke it.