It followed me home from writing group this evening, a place I went even though I was strongly considering curling up in bed with a good book instead. That choice would have meant an early night, but I went to the writing group anyway, feeling somewhat obligated, and enjoyed myself, as I always do. I managed to tap some of that enthusiasm that Kevin Rabas seems to always have an abundance of and came home asking myself, once again, why my writing life has been shoved aside.
At some point this evening, just listening to the others talk, it occurred to me that I had maybe let my heart get so distracted by the promise of a book that I forgot I was once getting pretty good at publishing shorter stuff.
I don't know how long the moose will last, but I came home and dusted off some previous works in process. I already have one submitted and several more that feel promising.
The process left me feeling so satisfied, I worked on my book project too.
My mother used to say, "Patience, my young donkey," when she was feeling particularly short with my lack of it. Actually, she used another word for donkey, but my mother wouldn't have like me admitting that she used that kind of language.