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.