Haven’t written as much the last couple weeks and my brain is rebelling, persistently shoving ideas to the surface like a game of Whack-a-Mole. Zine ideas. Revisions for the accidental novella. POEMS. Plot notes for the two (!) new (!) longer-than-I-have-the-discipline-for stories. One came to me in a dream, one was a FINISHED. SHORT. STORY. that betrayed me the second I tried to tweak the ending. Did I mention zine ideas? Let’s mention them again, because they’re multiplying like bunnies.
You spend half your writing life asking “Where do ideas come from?” and the other half painfully aware of the answer: “Chill. They’re everywhere, and someday you won’t be able to stop them coming.”*
My kingdom for a few more hours in the day.
Naturally, the one project I’m not getting ideas for is The Book, so maybe this embarrassment of riches is just procrastination in disguise?
*Getting serious Sandman #17 vibes here but I swear I did nothing to deserve it.