I spent the whole weekend being sick.

I mean, really, really, badly sick. My acute upper-respiratory infection decided to drop down into my lungs. I was coughing, congested, sneezing, and aching over every single inch of my body. I wanted to guzzle NyQuil and curl up on a heating pad.

But, of course . . . a deadline. At the suggestion of my editor (and it was a good one), I decided to drop one of my major characters and her storyline to simplify things a bit on this next book, and that required a rewrite. I almost had it finished over the holiday break, but just needed to polish it up a bit more.

Alas, by Friday, it was clear I was just too freaking sick. So I sent my editor an email, promising her I’d have the latest revision ready on Monday. I medicated myself and went to bed, and Saturday I woke up even sicker. By Sunday morning, there was still no respite in sight. But guys – I had a deadline.

So I got up early, took a long, hot shower, slurped down some hot tea and swallowed some DayQuil. And I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

I sat on a heating pad, and my hands shook from my chills here and there. I was writing with a Kleenex stuffed in each nostril at one point because I couldn’t stop my nose from running. I had such a bad coughing fit, I spilled hot tea all over myself but somehow missed the laptop (thank God). But I got it done. Deadline met.

This is the difference between a writer, and a person who likes to write. Writers finish.

No matter how crappy they feel, no matter how hard it is to stay motivated, they finish.

Then they crawl into bed and sleep until the next deadline rears its ugly head.