I love Christmas. The tree, the gifts, the guests. Usually, this is when all my restlessness disappears for a few weeks, but not this year. This year, I'm distracted.
I'm jotting notes on everything in sight. I'm huddled under the blankets well after midnight with a reading light (so I don't wake my husband) writing dialogue I'm worried I'll forget. There's nothing I'd rather do than hunker down at my computer and write, but I can't...
You'd think I'd be frustrated, but I'm not. Instead, I'm smiling all goofy like I've got this huge scecret or something, because I feel so fortunate to have a job I love this much, and doubly so that my creative muse is tap-tap-tapping on my brain, impatiently wanting to get back to work on a novel I'm excited about.
If you're a writer, you know what I mean. There's no feeling like it, is there? That tug and pull that makes you want to slink away from your own dinner party, not to sip wine by yourself in the kitchen, but to write!