When I'm all caught up, and my story submission queues are full, I have this ache to write a new book, completely different from all the work that lies in confusing ruins behind me.
My first 20-odd years as a writer have been littered with such a mess of failures, pivots, and restarts.
But the hope that I might yet write one good, true, meaningful thing that reaches a fuller array of strangers persists.
The daily mess of living first, but--
I'm coming for you, Next Big Work.
Soon soon soon.