Have you ever had a story grab you like a pit bull? Clamp its jaws in your skin until the only relief is to keep writing?
That's where I've been these past few days. In the flow.
I've been working pretty steadily on a few other stories. I finished up a historical and submitted it to The Wild Rose Press' Earth Songs series. (Fingers crossed!) I have another paranormal/semi-historical (you'll have to read it to understand) and another contemporary romance, and a few others in various stages of done-ness.
I'd had an idea for another story jiggling around in my head for a month or so. My daughter's obsession with a reality show began it all. An idea swirled around my grey matter, half-formulating, falling apart again. I drafted a quick premise so I wouldn't forget it, but then it retreated to my subconscious.
Then, a few days ago, it hit with a vengeance. Apparently, it had been gathering itself together, readying for the attack.
I began writing. I don't even think about the story, really - it just comes through me. And I write and write as fast as I can. I carry my notebook with me, and scribble during any downtime. Even on the treadmill (not recommended, btw. Legibility - and the workout - suffer, though it makes the treadmill less boring, for sure). I took the notebook to bed with me last night. And the previous night.
I began to key it into the laptop, but the flow isn't there. It's on paper, for some reason. (Maybe I've been reading too many articles about authors literally penning their first drafts - see previous post.) So I'm still writing.
Another story's now vying for attention, rather jealously. I can't work on it right now. I'm too busy writing.
The flow is a good place to be.
