I could feel it there, waiting, on the edges of my consciousness. The light was brighter, clearer, and I paid attention to details more. There was a pressure in my head, almost an ache. There was a story, lurking, waiting to be born. Or, to be more precise, the idea for one.
I don't feel comfortable when I'm not writing something creative. I mean, yes. I have this dissertation, which is a fairly large and complex writing project that comes with some very specific deadlines. It's in draft, and I'm revising.
And the novel is in draft, and is in the loving but harsh hands of my readers. (I have yet to print out my own copy and begin the reread. Perhaps this weekend.) And I know what the next novel is, and there are the plans for the collaborative epistolary novel with the lovely Megan. But the next novel requires Serious Research, and I want to be writing. I was beginning to feel fidgety because I wasn't. Revisions are good, research is necessary, but I needed to be actively writing something.
Finally, the first line sprang into my head, and I know what I will be working on next. It will probably be a longer short -- novella length, maybe? But I have something. I have taken pen in hand, and begun scrawling in my notebook. I feel like myself again.