KLo, you're going to have to forgive me for this one. I'm borrowing a thread you started, so that I can spin it out here, see how many kittens come by to play with the end.
The question that leaped into my mind while reading KLo's post was this. What is writing to me? There were many comments on her page, and I'll leave it up to you to read them. As for me, writing is a multi-faceted beast that I barely control. Rather than something internal, a hunger I feed or an addiction I beg release from, writing is an external friend. Its a buddy sitting next to me, poking a finger in my ribs when I'm asleep in math class. At certain moments, writing is a rollercoaster ride I'm enjoying, my arms held high and my fingertips aiming for white puffs of clouds. Unfortunately, sometimes that ride slams unexpectedly into a brick wall. Then writing becomes a battle through a raging snowstorm, my legs being sucked down into white powder thick as mud. Until the sun comes out, I struggle to make an inch of progress.
I could wax on metaphorically all day I guess, but the point is that for me, writing is an external thing. It doesn't feel like an internal process that others describe, an need or addiction that must be dealt with. Its not a salve either, a bandaid that makes my wounds heal. So maybe thats part of my problem, that I visualize writing as a bizarre creature I try to lasso. Sometimes I manage to get the rope around its head and ride the beast. Sometimes I get dragged through the sun-blasted landscape. Am I the weird one here? Maybe... just maybe.