That's what I tell myself.
The other half of that is that I have to have something to say, something that interests me, some destination I can aim my words to.
I think that is what makes January and February (and March) so difficult for my speculative fiction -- my interest is directed inward toward mundane, banal things. So I blog; in the days before blogging I probably wrote bad poetry. Am I a post-pupating caterpillar dreaming it's a writer? In winter, as a writer I feel like a butterfly in a chrysalis, waiting for the seasons to turn so I can break out and expand my wings. I can feel the first stirrings.
Sort of. So for now, it's back to the drafts and the words written last night.