Right, so I bought a house.
Then I tore out everything up to the rafters.
|Green courtesy of previous owner|
Then I tore out everything down to the slab.
|Sad construction chair is sad.|
I have one room left, and I'm taking it down to the slab and up to the rafters.
I've decided I must have some sort of sickness, because this is sort of how I operate with novels too (but, just so we're clear, it's WAAYYYYYY faster to hit delete, and you don't have to pay to have the garbage hauled away!).
Now would be the usual time when I'd go into the whys and hows of comparing home remodeling with novel editing, but I'm just too tired. I work ten hour shifts with two fifteen minute breaks and a thirty minute lunch (which I use to write, because I've lost my marbles and can't even take my lunch off). After work, I've been going up to the house and working for three hours because, you know, a ten hour shift followed by construction work is totally reasonable.
When I'm committed, I expect all of you to deny I mentioned any of this.
But, even with all this, I find my brain sneaking away to think about my Shiny New Idea. Yanking nails and I'm figuring out politics of my world, magic systems, and who the bad guys are and why they are such bad bad guys.
Which means, all of this is to say that some ideas can wait. Some can't, some ideas are like delicate flowers that bloom once and are done. Some are like orchids and will wait for a while. And then there are the ideas that are like trees.
How 'bout you all? How are your ideas, delicate with a fragile beauty, or are they the robust trees?