On the eve of the numerical anniversary of my date of birth (=birthday eve), I have to admit, I couldn't do it. I could not continue this farce of relaxation when the muse has demanded my suffering.
Over-dramatic, I know, but I pounded out a few thousand words towards the baby fresh third part of my book and I regret nothing. I suck at relaxing and even if people were just flocking to kidnap me, it wouldn't have made a difference. After a great idea smacked me in the face, I was just way too eager to run with it, eager to see how I could make it unfold in the continuance of the story.
I definitely plan to be in the moment while I visit friends and family tomorrow, but that was all the more reason to succumb to the muse and get some serious writing done. Drafting isn't always such a breezy process, but I was simultaneously editing the shaky beginning and moving on at a pace that was almost inhuman, a feeling both like addiction and so much better for the lack of bad side effects and 'coming down' (although, my back is a little cranky from engaging in a bit of bad posture).
It was a great day. I can always use those. Watching stories grow is a thing of beauty. Taking the reins is a feeling like no other. Sure, sometimes characters end up swerving in directions of their own, but it's an organic and chaotic thing to head-hop and never gets effortless to nail down, even for someone who lives with a butterfly brain.
I've chased enough butterflies on Skyrim to be completely sure that's the perfect analogy. I thought about Pokemon but it's more like having no Pokeballs. You're just clicking wildly in the general area until you get a... shiny pair of butterfly wings. (Don't worry, butterfly, you're just a caterpillar again...)
I should probably sleep now.
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