I am floating in wonderful in-between land. My first novel is going through the editing mill with my agent and my second is composting in the far-flung corners of my mind. It’s an odd place to be in the writing spectrum.
But, a pretty wonderful place at the same time. Daydream, reading, jotting little notes with my favourite pen, all the while doing what I love. I’ve been wringing out the knots that need to be addressed in novel 1, researching interesting/disturbing/eye-opening facts for novel 2, planning short stories, non-fiction articles and generally enjoying wordsmithery.
On the surface it all looks rather relaxed
On the surface…
But underneath are the bubbles of something else entirely. Because can a writer ever relax and enjoy the preparations of writing?
Every short story I’ve planned I am desperate to write, though I won’t get a chance for a long while yet (they will be written when novel 2 is submitted) The articles I’ve planned have not actually been requested but are just my dalliance, my desire to write everything, right now. And don’t get me started on the actual novels. I’ve rewritten the first novel six gazillion times in my head, wondering if Kate would like this, or that, or if that twist would work better earlier/later/not at all.
Oh, and that second novel. It’s going to be good. I can feel it in my very bones, my right palm has been itching fire ever since I started the research and characterisation. I am desperate to write it but…but… I also know, from my long history as a person of great impatience, that I should not rush.
It will all get done.
It will be all the better for having had time.
And I also know that, no matter how often I remind myself of the above, my right palm will continue to itch.