Fleeting

I've just finished a story, and right now I feel like I'm made of cocaine.

The feeling will fade, of course, and the worry will set in. Plot threads left dangling, adjectives misplaced. Factual paradoxes it would take a laser-focused narrative snob to notice, little mistakes that leave my new baby broken and full of holes. And after the worry must by necessity come the editing.

But for now, the moon is full behind my brain, and I'm happy to be alive, and so I want to go enjoy it, in my own exhausted, Thursday-night way. As such, I am afraid this week's post is not very substantive, and I am afraid that the best thing I can offer is a more frequent posting schedule--a promise to update once a week but a plan to start ;posting a bit more piecemeal here and there, to share little ideas and wonderful links and all the detritus of the Internet that writers with blogs seem to work with when they aren't sifting through comments and letters. Perhaps even tomorrow, I'll dig something up in my RSS feeds that raises my wonder, or my ire, and leaves me wanting to post about. Perhaps even tomorrow, I'll do that.

"Perhaps Even Tomorrow". There's a story title in that.

Anyway, I'm off. Don't wait up. I've got a sense of completion on the brain.