I have a handful of pieces fanned out on my writing desk--just a couple of poems and short stories. But each one has me sliding into my chair every evening, excited to keep exploring where the words will take me. I expect to be working on most of them through the rest of the season.
However, I also have stack of stories and poems, a full inch worth of paper thick, sitting on my computer desk, all ready to be typed into final drafts. That is the stack that has me hurrying to my writing room. I stand on the verge of a productivity burst, the likes of which I have not enjoyed in ages. All I have to do is keep knocking each piece out, verse by verse.
I almost hate to keep fending off the urge to start a new novel.
