Yesterday we had a day off. I still wrote something, I just didn't post it on here. Does that make me some kind of addict?

Perhaps that's a good place to start my entry for the evening. It's a lot later than usual, but I have to work with what I've got around here. At the library today for the monthly reading group meeting, I came across a book with an interesting title. I wish I could recall what the title was now. I'd love to look it up once I get online tonight. It do recall what it was about, though; writing addiction, which had some fancy sounding name, and the opposite; writers or a creative block. The black cover drew my attention and the stark white words speaking out to me that I should read it. I have no idea now why I put it back. Perhaps the fact I had White Teeth in my hands for this month's read; Book Lust, which I picked up last week at the library; and I still have Mao's Last Dancer to read, which I picked up last month.

But this brings me back to the question; is it possible to have a writing addiction?

I know I must write every day, at least once. There's this blog, my other online journal, the handwritten one I carry around in my nappy bag, the one beside the bed for last minute nightly thoughts and the one for the books I'm reading. I've written in the first three and the reading one today. But does that make me an addict?

There are days I simply don't have time to sit and write in my handwritten one. I've only been onto this one for around three weeks. The other online journal I've only been writing in regularly in the last couple of months again after having my baby. The nightly one I tried to keep up but some nights I just crashed. I'm back at it every night now, though. The reading one is very simple. I note the title, author, page number, when I started and finished, where I obtained the book and what I thought of it. Last year my count was sixty something and the year before 74, I think. This year I'm at eight so far.

I know I like to write. It satisfies something deep inside me. I enjoy the sensation of forming words on the page or the screen. But what qualifies me as a writing addict? I suppose the best way to find out is to read the book I mentioned above; the one I can't recall the title of. Usually, I note these things down, but I did have the pram to push and the book to carry and the time to watch as I needed to be home.

When I write an entire novel or other project I get antsy if I can't get to it. I haven't done anything on my goal project in several days and it's bothering me. Some days I'm lucky to get near the computer. Today was one of them. I admit it's my own fault. I read and read to finish the book for reading group. I so wanted to be part of the discussion. I didn't read the last one and felt out of touch with the discussion, even though it seems I didn't miss much, anyway.

I like words. I like the sound of them on my tongue and enjoying playing around with them just about any time. For some reason I love saying the word slab. It's so satisfying, so delicious, so delightful. Maybe I'm not so addicted to writing as I am to words. I see them everywhere and read them in great chunks. As we zoom past signs in the car I read them aloud. I read the credits at the end of the movie; I have to know if the story is based on a book or where they filmed those scenes. I write email complaints to publishers and ice cream companies just because I can. I don't really care if I get a response. The reward for me is the writing, not what they will do. Anyway, my time is up.