It's happening again:
First, the what-if. It happened two nights ago while interacting in glorious conversation w/ people I've never met, faces I've never seen, yet bonding through the commonality of language and adoration. And yet, now that I look back on it, the seed had already been planted a day or two before that.
Then, the seed. I sketched the idea out late at night, just the basics. But I wrote nothing. I needed time to let the names and faces come to me. I needed time to listen to their voices. I needed them to whisper their truths to me.
Just now, as I walked, they came to me. Three of them, so far.
I've never had kids, nor do I ever want to, but I imagine that for many couples, finding out you are pregnant must feel an awful lot like the birth of a novel idea, minus the morning sickness. There's excitement. There's anticipation. There's anxiety. There's joy. There's a desire to announce it to the world in skywriting -- I've got a kick-ass idea for a novel! Title and everything! And there's a desire to have it born already, finished, perfect.
There's also the superstition that so many writers have, and I have it to a degree as well: Say nothing. Don't give specifics. Don't show anyone your work. It hasn't been born yet.
There's just one problem, though: I'm already pregnant.
That is to say, I already have another manuscript in draft form, and it too needs to be born. I have a co-writer (co-parent?) eager, anxious, excited. And I want to see that through first. I have a book needing to be delivered. I have a book that has already been fully born and needs my attention.
So, what's the point of this post?
I'm not sure, except that I wish I had more time and money. And dammit, I'm going to make the most out of these next three months.