I’m not sure how it is for other writers, but waiting to write out a new story idea feels like holding back a sneeze to me. I came up with an idea a couple weeks ago, and it kept growing and changing and taking shape and, try as I might, it just wouldn’t leave me alone.
The trouble is, a new book wasn’t in the plan. I was supposed to write a new book in January and February, take a break, and then spend the rest of my time crafting a pitch that’s going to wow and amaze when I start pitching this series in the summer.
There’s nothing wrong with this plan. It’s a nice, sensible, considerate plan. It takes into account family events, my own personal capabilities, and my husband’s preference that I not be a walking, distracted stress-ball all the time.
And yet, there’s this story idea. A story idea I can totally see through to the end. You know what’s not nice, sensible, and considerate? This story idea.
So I guess that’s what I’ll be working on for awhile. I’ll just have to work on my pitch while I’m flying to New York. That could work, right? And I’ll spend the rest of the year revising the manuscript I just wrote and the one I’m starting now.
That might work. Either way, it doesn’t seem like I have much choice in the matter. Whatever part of my brain handles the conjuring of ideas has spoken. I suppose it behooves me to just shut up and hold on.