I haven’t written in two days.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t been productive.  It just means I haven’t worked on anything new.  In the past two days i’ve proofread the second draft of a novella and the galleys of a novel, searched for a home for a short story, scheduled a shoot for author photos, and dug a little deeper into the Great Agent Hunt.  I’m happy for these distractions, because soon I’ll be handing that novella off to my final pre-reader, and that means I have to dive back into two novels that I’ve been working on for the past year and continue to push me as a writer.

But I’m jonesing.  Jonesing hard.

A couple of days without writing–without creating–and my skin starts to crawl.  Story ideas creep into my head and demand their spot in line.  The cover of a book makes me envious (the beautiful covers on ChiZine Publication’s books are really bad about this).  I start to look for vacation days so I can spend gigantic chunks of time just typing.

But I can’t. There are things in the queue.  A novella.  Two novels.  A few years ago, maybe even last year, I might have just busted through them and decided I was done.  They’d either sell or they wouldn’t (hint: they wouldn’t).  Now, I want to spend an eternity on them, crafting and carving and making them perfect.  I don’t want to be a hack.  I want to be a writer.

Sometimes the jones helps.  Sometimes it doesn’t.