Someone asked me yesterday if writing is less fun now that I'm officially in the business of writing (well, sort of). The answer, at least at that moment, was no. I'm at the point in my newest effort where the protag has grabbed me by the shoulder, pushed me to the keyboard, and ordered, "Write down what I tell you."
It sometimes takes a while for that to happen, and then it's work. But when she's talking in my ear, as fast as she can, my job is simply to write down what I hear, and that's a kind of magic. Time goes by so quickly that I can hardly believe it. I have to make myself take frequent breaks so that stupid ulnar nerve in my right arm doesn't start acting up again. And all the other things that were supposed to happen today, this week, or even this month, don't seem very urgent at all.
When a character wants to spill her guts, writing is easy and words, sentences, and paragraphs seep into my brain like elevator music. I'm unaware of the process until I realize that I'm humming along. It's only when the protagonist dummies up that writing becomes work. That's when inspiration has to come through perspiration.