I’ve been in a writing zone lately. Every day, writing. In the car, in the house, upstairs and downstairs. It doesn’t seem to matter. As I’ve mentioned over at the Aldersgate Cycle blog, I’ve been so busy that blog writing isn’t really a possibility (except um, obviously right now).

I realized I’ve clocked about 70K in the last month and three days. Which is impressive.

But what really got me is that I’ve written 35K in the last ten days.

Though I’m typically very, um, unpredictable when it comes to writing, I have little in the way of explanation for this one. To my knowledge no one has spiked my drinks, and I’ve taken no performance enhancing drugs (unless you count red wine, coffee, and ibuprofen). Usually I’ll write for about a week, and stop, then not write for a month. Unless I have NaNoWriMo or something. But in the space of a month I doubled my WriMo work, and not even really that consciously.

And honestly, I’ve felt kind of crappy lately. My sister is fighting Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, our finances are shaky at best, we’re moving again, and I’ve got the third cold this year. It’s also February, which is, contrary to popular belief and T.S. Eliot, the cruelest month. Dar Williams had it right. Maybe this is escape. Maybe it’s determination. Maybe it’s me trying to make real to a promise I made myself, that I wouldn’t just be a writer in theory, but a writer in practice–that writing would become more than my hobby, it would become my vocation. My calling.

Anyway, this is not a gloating post; I am the first to admit that quantity does not equal quality. There’s much work to be done, but at the moment I’m feeling a little bit accomplished. And hell, I could really use that right about now.