There is something wonderful about being abuzz with ideas, the post-it notes stacking up beside the bed, a writer-is-cooking state.
But it often equals little sleep, unfortunately, so I’ll pay for it today, no doubt—and likely, no doubt, when I’m at my most brain-befuddled and meeting with my agent this afternoon to discuss The Next Novel.
Here are some of my notes:
Buy bug dope (for our trip up north this coming weekend).
“Many would wonder how a woman can get to the age of xxx and still be a virgin.” A possible opening sentence of The Next Novel? (“xxx” means Look it up.)
“The End of Magic”—possible book title?
Plus the thought of pairing that title with the scull painting shown—I know, dismal, but I love it. You can see the problem my editors have. (Not to mention that the novel is not even begun much less written.)
Plus a number of notes on a wonderful new novel I’m reading (in manuscript) for Mary Sharratt, a novel I’m “blurbing.”
The sun is up now as I write this, and so is the world. My husband is singing “Rhinestone Cowboy” and cooking breakfast. A day begins.