It’s been 11 days since I finished first revisions of a book and sent it to readers.
I’m starting to feel it.
While I haven’t done a lick of story-related writing, I have been chipping away at the outline of a new book. Which is good. But unearthing the pieces and trying to fit them together is such slow, unpredictable work (The work may be counted on; progress is fickle)– I’m just left restless and impatient and itching to write!
In the meantime, I’m going to revel in my restlessness. The hunger to write tells me two things: 1) that I have found work that satisfies, compels, and is otherwise right for me, and 2) that something in me has changed. There used to be a time I would hear other people say that they wrote because they had to. There could be no other way. And while I still feel there are other ways, I better understand the notion– and feel with ever-growing conviction that writing is the one for me.