I have had a bad week.  Details are not important, but this week sucked.  By the end of the week, I was a bit of a madwoman, looking for more things to piss me off just so I could rant and rave about what a bad week I was having.  In the midst of it all, though, I kept writing.  I kept writing mainly because I am an overly-disciplined, neurotic rule-follower and I have a set-in-cement rule that I have to write something….anything….every day, no matter what.  So, I wrote and I was reminded of why I write.  Just like reading, writing is a form of escapism.  Writing whisks you away into another world and insulates you from the harsh realities of life.  One night this week, as I was positioned carefully in bed with an ice pack and ibuprofen, I began writing and before I knew it, hours had gone by and I had written one kick-ass chapter.  I hadn’t thought once about work problems, my back being out, family issues…I had been totally lost in my writing.  I’m a pretty “straight as an arrow” kind of girl—-I’ve never been tempted by drink, drugs, gambling, or other vices.  I’ve never craved them like I crave writing.  Writing is necessary to my sanity.  Just like Alice couldn’t resist the little bottle marked “Drink Me” I can not resist the blank pages that demand “Write Me.”  Writing is my drug of choice.