I know, that sounds odd, doesn’t it? But to some extent, it’s true. Today, if you had watched me, you’ve wouldn’t have seen me do anything writer-ly. My son and I went for an autumn walk and pressed fallen leaves between wax paper. We washed dishes and made batter for homemade donuts. During nap time, I watched the beginning of Jane Eyre, the version made for Masterpiece Theater, on PBS. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like I wasn’t working. But I was.
To some extent, I’m relaxing too. My first book is officially published, and my revisions for my second, unrelated novel, have been sent in to my agent. There isn’t really anything to do until she gets back to me. So what was I doing today?
I was thinking, imagining, stewing. All the possible ideas I’ve had swirling in my head for months have suddenly become more prominent, more demanding. Characters are knocking on my brain, demanding attention. I’ve begun dreaming about them, about some of the story sparks I have.
This is my absolute favorite part of being a writer; the choosing of the next story, the fleshing out of the characters, the imagining. There are endless possibilities in front of me, all bright and sparkling and new. Which will I pick? What will I create? What will the final product be like? At this point, no one knows, not even me…
What about you? What’s your favorite part of writing?