to have a flog of ;

Sometimes I feel too many ideas could kill a girl.

But instead of dying, I’m just going to write.

This book’s been seven, eight years in the making and I’ve learned so much from it. About writing, about hungry aliens more human than human, maybe even a little about love. But it’s the next book that’s pushing me to finish the current one–I want to write this new story so badly. Not that The Dream Tree doesn’t have its own drive and flog pushing me forward. But there’s no discovery in the writing of it. I know the world, the people, too well. I like writing it. But it’s not shoving me along. I’m not its captive.

This new one, though. I think about it periodically, about how much I wanted to write this dark, absurd and tragic and hilarious science fiction that’s more about the humans than the technology. And this lust I have for this new story–it’s a really a good thing. Because it’s exactly what I need to finish The Dream Tree.

So I’ll wrap up the current book, all the while longing for starved drummers who eat only lemons, conniving shapeshifters who take over apartments, and elven vocalists that curb their manic depression with peeps (yes, the sugar-crusted baby chickens).


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