Remember the manuscript-in-progress I mentioned here? Well, today it took the leap off the cliff. That’s right! My agent sent it on its way to some unsuspecting and no doubt terrified editors.

It’s one of those feelings that’s a five in one. I’m happy, of course, and relieved this version is done with, excited to see what people might think, scared out of my fucking mind that no one will like it and also just like WELP DEAL WITH IT.

Usually now I’d like to take a break to… just be without any characters taking up space in my head but alas. I have to be searching for something else to write, because it would be… a misstep to just not write during the time it’s being submitted. At least I can say my stuff is out there somewhere, and not just this book but about twenty-five short story submissions as well. All I know is some eyes better be reading my work at any given moment of the day. READ ME, dammit. Love me or hate me, I do take up space in one’s head.

But there’s another feeling too, and that’s one of longing.

It’s stupid, probably, and pretentious on some level, but I miss my characters from that last book. I can’t dwell forever and with any luck I’ll get to revisit them with some edits but they’re largely gone and I know that. I faced such hurdles with it. Having such a hard time with the initial birth and facing a Great Depression in the middle where I stopped work on it for months. It’s literally a tiny miracle I managed to finish at all and I’m so fucking proud of doing that, come hell or high water. It’s so me it almost hurts.

Now, turning towards the future…

So, how I normally get ideas is getting beaned. I’ve mentioned this before — maybe briefly — but beaning is essentially walking about your day as normal and then experiencing a baseball to the back of the head. It comes out of nowhere, with no reason or origin behind it: the perfect idea, nearly fully formed. That’s how it’s always worked. But I’ve recently come to understand that maybe I have to have the ability to drive myself into writing something, powered by… imagination?

The fuck is that about?

But I digress.

So I’ll be actively looking for something to turn into my next book. I’m a little… fearful. And confused. And worried. I’ve never had much luck in forcing it. But I know I can’t just rely on the sky to produce something for me. In these uncertain times, I turn towards my manual for writing, Misery by our lord and savior, Stephen King. Paul Sheldon struggled with having an idea to jumpstart the revival of Misery book, one that would satisfy Annie. He knew trying to have an idea in the middle of books was common but was unsure if trying to have an idea for the start of a book would work. In the end, he was able to do it through a combination of beaning and being open to the universe. But I feel there was something inside Paul, the great Can You?er, that made that necessary. I was a good Can You?er once upon a time.

If there was ever something in me that had the power to produce on command, now would be a great fucking time for it to announce itself.