(I add the “as a writer” bit solely because as a person suffering from a chronic panic disorder finding myself alarmed at something is a daily occurrence. Truly, I don’t know how my dog puts up with me. Going nuclear over a butterfly landing on my arm can’t be good for anybody caught in the blast zone… particularly a little, furry muse who likes to sit on my hip while I write.)
Anyhow, back to my original statement on authorial alarm.
I had finished my 800 words on The Hushing Days and was ratcheting myself up to do my weekly “Cora’s Garden” blog on my pseudonym’s website, when a simple, passing thought waylaid me.
The culprit? Here it is… (cover your eyes if you’re particularly skittish)… “Ok, I need to start deciding on what I’m writing next.”
I thought I might need oxygen.
There has been no “next,” there’s been no “after The Hushing Days” in, like, forever. This novel has been the sole sun on my horizon for months and months and months and…
The fact that my mind could actually peek ahead to an “after” shocked me to the core.
I’m taking this as a very good sign.
I know I’m going to get this book written. Like I’ve told you before, I’ve reached that point of no return. The Hushing Days will be done.
But when my subconscious creeps out of its dark little cave and actually agrees with my conscious, alarm bells fire and I start checking my arms for butterflies.
My poor, poor dog.