I’m getting itchy. Not like the sand-in-your-bathing-suit-been-sweating-it-out-in-the-sun-and-can’t-wait-for-a-shower kind. No, I’m twitchy all over because it’s the end of August.
This month is always chuck full for me, from birthdays to vacations to school prep, and so I get very little writing done. In fact, this August, I haven’t written any fiction. I’ve fallen off social media. I don’t even have a good book I’m reading (although I do intend to pick up Meg Abbott’s Fever).
And all this lack of schedule, where every day is Saturday, is getting to me. I need my structure back. I need my schedule of writing and then teaching and then reading and repeat. Within a week I’ll be back to work, and some of the schedule will fall into place. But there’s still no writing until the following week. I put my all into teaching and so the first week is all panic and excitement, which eventually leads to exhaustion. But by that next week, I’ve got a groove going, and I can usually get back to my other work.
The writing is paramount, but I’m also at the verge of promotion for Press Play. I think I have all my signing dates lined up. The trailer should be ready any minute, and there are other pieces under construction that I can’t wait to deliver. But not yet. And so the itch deepens.
As does the story I feel is tumbling around my head. I have a desire to speak about this topic, and I already have notes for characters and plot, and every time I encounter something that reminds me of the story, I email myself a note. Of which I have too many already.
So, in essence, it’s time. Summer is dying in the empty streets of town, as people squeeze out another trip or daylong excursion. And I’m watching, mind racing, itching to put everything in place and start my cycle again.
Summer’s over, and I have another story to tell.