Writing addiction. This is bad, guys.

Today I should have finished reading half of the two-foot-tall stack of manuscripts by my work desk. Instead, what was I doing? Working on my own novel. I am almost positive I won't start querying for it until I'm fifty, which, give or take, is twenty-five years from now. I have been hopelessly engrossed with writing. I have no audience, except for my boyfriend, and he's not even around because he is reasonably busy preparing for his graduation, last exam, and last big report.

I haven't been this engrossed in writing for a couple of years, and this is probably the worst I've seen myself. I ate at 8:00am. I sat down to type. I took a break and looked at my computer clock. It was 12:30am. The sun was gone. I missed lunch and dinner. Someone who could eat five times a day and still be hungry missed lunch AND dinner, folks! This has to be some form of emotional infidelity. I spend all my waking hours with this novel when I could be, er, poring over the fourth revision of a heart-felt e-mail to my boyfriend.