Also, Jenny's changed on me, and I don't understand her well anymore. I need to find her again, and get to know her as a saner version of herself. Still damaged, but better. So there's a protag to be reinvented.
And I'm just drained. I got years worth of ideas out onto paper and into pretty good shape, working on writing every second when I wasn't committed to something else. At some point, you have to stop and refill the pot. So.
Stopping to refill the pot.
Locking the guilt gorilla away.
And taking some time to play, dammit. And wait for a story to get consuming enough that I have to tell it. I have time. My goal for the year is two novel drafts, after all. It's not like I have to get them done tomorrow.
Freaking Puritan guilt. Working every minute will *not* make me a better writer. It will only make me a burned out and frustrated one.
It occurs to me that I should print out my novels in manuscript and just freaking read them some. And read all these books on my pile.
And clean the bathroom.
And play with the dogs.
And start my research for The Stratford Man.
And have some damned fun. :-)