Last night, just as I was getting ready for bed, it hit me:
The overwhelming urge to work on one of my novels I’ve been tinkering on for the past decade.
So I fired up my old laptop, which took about a year to do, propped up my pillows and had at it – until the wee hours of the morning. As with every time before when I’ve worked on one of them in pseudo-recent times (which you can read about here and here if you so desire), the flow just started happening.
There was no struggle; there were just words that fit, characters that got a little more developed, more of an idea of where I wanted them to go, it was releasing for me, inspiring and just what I needed for my creativity.
With that writing came a new little goal: To work on the novel(s) at least twice a week from here on out.
I need to do it for myself – because long before I became a journalist, writing novels was my dream.
It still remains my dream, mind you, it’s just been relegated to one of those that’s up there with “buy a new car” or “take an exotic vacation” or something these days.
Well, not anymore. Besides, isn’t it about time I start creatively capitalizing on my ever-present insomnia?