Once again I have entered the "zone". This is a murky and occasionally colorful part of my existence where the WORK-IN-PROGRESS becomes my reason for breathing. It's sorta like becoming the host to an annoying parasite. I go to bed thinking of scenes, I walk up thinking of scenes. Luckily, I don't ever dream about my books, which is a relief. Still, every spare waking moment is inundated by THE WORK.
It's always this way and I've come to understand that is it best not to fight the assimilation.It's hard to get into that zone, but once you're there, it pulls you along, page by page to THE END. In time, once the book is off to the typesetter, a strange silence will fall upon me, almost as if I've lost a best friend. Then it starts all over for the next book.
Those who aren't addicted with the writing bug don't understand. That's probably for the best. Those of us who do live to write know the pain, the joy, the frustration and the relief when the work is finally "done." It's what we do.
And so I'm doing it again, trusting in the gift, the story and the characters. Always a white knuckle ride. I wouldn't have it any other way.