So, last night as I was sitting at the dining room table (eating and reading), I had a sort of vision: the creepy opening scene for a rather disturbing little story. So I fired up the laptop, and I wrote it down...
...And it's good.
This is horrible. I mean, I was just starting to make some progress on another writing project, and I have seven or eight more lined up behind that one. And Secondborn is sick with a cough, and Beautiful Wife is completely stressed out, so even if I do try to work on this one, real life is going to come crashing down on any semblance of writing time I might have, and by the time I get back to it I'll probably have lost all sense of the story.
Even worse, I like this story. I haven't been this interested in telling a particular story in years. Bits and pieces of it keep coming together in my head, even - or perhaps especially - when I'm trying to do other things. It's completely taking over my brain, filling all those ridges and folds with its slimy black tentacles, and I don't even have a working title for it. But it just keeps creeping in, and for the first time in I don't even know how long, I feel like I could write this. I feel like I could finish this.
I don't know exactly where it's going. I have no idea how long it'll be. But by all the dark and forgotten corners of the world, I'm going to have a lot of fun finding out.