Why Writers Really are Freaks of Nature

It's true. Just wait.

So, you see this cute little meme popping around every now and then that reads: "If writers are not writing, Then the are thinking about writing." Except more flowy and less like a math theorem. "If the hypotenuse is congruent to the..." whatever. I gave up math at graduation. The point is, it makes us sound like the saddest sacks in the galaxy. We laugh at it. We recognize the truth of it, but we hope most people think it's a big joke.

Well, it's not. We are freaks. Obsessed with our jobs to the point of illness. I have proof. The following story is probably too personal and will no doubt reveal the pathetic state of my life to the universe, but it's most likely way too late to prevent that anyway. You all had your suspicions.
Anyway...

I was up late not writing by talking about writing with my best friend on gmail chat. This is not terribly relevant, except to lay the groundwork. I had been writing, most of the day, and I would, possibly, write more at any second.
She was moaning about a short story she'd started that had decided to turn into a long story on her....again. Okay, she's a writer, and therefore also a freak. This sort of thing really gets us riled up. It's like a halftime at the super bowl when the home team is down by more than a field goal. Or someone's bra pops off.
Except we were fully dressed.

So next she informs me that I need to write a class on how to keep short stories short. (This was almost an insult. I mean, what is so thin about my plots that keeps hers nicely thick and juicy, right?) But the idea somehow lodges in my brain even though I skid nicely over it and change the subject. In my defense, my current WIP is sneaking up on 80 thousand words, thank you very much.

So we keep talking about writing, and then do some writing, punctuated by chatting about what we wrote. (freaks) Then I go to bed.

Somewhere around way-too-early in the morning I interrupt the nice dream I'm having about a dark and mysterious stranger to have this dream about myself teaching a class about how to write a short story and keep it short. I dream it. The stupid class. Complete with synopsis, outline, examples and lesson plan. Instead of the good, perfectly normal, non-therapy-requiring, ordinary dream.
Kill me.

It gets worse. I wake up at six am. SIX...AM. I get up, willingly. Okay, I don't. I crawl to the couch and try to go back to sleep, but the stupid dream is there, hissing at me. Write it down, write it....write it down, you FREAK or you'll lose it!

Its' not a joke. In fact, we might qualify for some sort of government funded...oh. Never mind.

~Frances