It was a slow day at work, so I was pondering my writing or lack thereof in December.

The last time I worked on my novel was December 5. After that I got caught up writing about the election on my blog. Then I had to write a five page paper for my art history class, and study for my art history final which was on December 15. And then it was the holidays and shopping and just major relaxing.

But no writing, which is not good, but maybe understandable since I spent all of November doing the 50K nanowrimo thing.

But on Sunday I got that nagging feeling that there was something missing in my life and if I didn't start doing it, I would start getting depressed. That something is always "writing". Writing makes me feel like I'm doing something with my life and that I have a purpose, other than just existing.

I can't just live and exist and not have a purpose for my life. Other people can live like that, but I can't. I wish I could, but I've tried it, it doesn't work for me and it makes me feel totally depressed.

I've always got to be doing something that makes me feel like I have a purpose, that there's a reason for me be living and existing, and that the "something" is contributing to humanity on whatever level.

This urge must be some kind of aberrant gene or something I have, because other people don't seem to have a problem leading a different kind of life.

So it's back to writing tonight and working on the novel, and a host of other items on my "writing to do list".