Yesterday was the first Saturday in nearly a year that I did not choose to sit and write. It was a strange and untethered feeling. Although I had a nice day with the Munchkin getting some shopping and yard work done, always in the back of my mind I was composing sentences for a book I've shoved in the drawer for the time being. I don't want to add one jot to the thing. It needs to rest--or should I say "I"?--before I can take another stab at it. Or just stab it. What a cruel and lovely feeling it would be to stab a book and see it bleed like Tom Riddle's journal. Goodbye figments of my imagination; may you never torment me again!
But now I'm undergoing another torment: what to write next? Nanowrimo starts in two weeks. Should I use that time to brain dump the fun idea I had, or to really try to get a significant portion of one my previous attempts completed? Time is scarce and I've made enough mistakes in my life. Let's not add wrong novel choice to the list!
Sidenote: In this month's Writer's Digest, there is a profile of an agent who hates sentence fragments, but writes in sentence fragments himself. I'm all about the sentence fragments. All about. I like italics too.