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Once, I fancied myself one of those organized people who plans releases with plenty of time to complete them and meets their deadlines with consistency, grace, and aplomb.
Only once. I had a lie-down and disabused myself of that notion straightaway. My magic is messy. My creation is chaotic. I wish it weren’t so, but I sorta don’t because when I come out of it, I’m exhausted and drained but I’m proud of what I’ve bled out onto the page. And when I’m in the middle of it, I can achieve this meta-state where I feel like I really am digging deep to pull the best out of me. I don’t do drugs and I keep forgetting to day-drink, even though I’m in my 40’s and a mom so it’s sort of expected, but damned if I don’t get a contact-high off that creative buzz. If I time things just right, it expands and starts multiplying back on itself.
That sorta happened this past month. After a long time where I was depleted and dealing with a lot of external stuff, the pressure let up and the anvils stopped dropping. I found myself with a new venture on a new platform in a different sub-genre, a second book in the current series (which took longer than I thought because the series goes deeper than I thought), and more than one side-hustle for existing series and future projects that have had significant progress made upon them.
I still have anvils in the forecast–I don’t think I can escape that–but they’ve let up to a sprinkle, and in between the clangs, I’m getting hit with ideas. I’m grateful, but I’m also a bit wary. At some point, I have to choose the ones to work on and the ones to tuck away, and I hate picking favorites from all my little plot-bunnies. It makes the un-picked feel sad. Still, there are worse positions to be in.