Being in a long-term writing fugue is like existing in two places at once. This isn’t something that gets turned on and off; the worlds running around in here are just there, all the time. When the boiler pressure is high, they exist at the same time, the inner world translating a version of itself onto the outer one. It’s almost-but-not-quite what the mysterious They often describes as schizophrenia, but since I’m aware of it I assume it’ll be okay.
Though I have occasionally found myself wondering what I’ll do if it just gets stronger and stronger as I get older.
Oh, well. That’s not a worry for today. Today’s worries are mostly plot-driven. No spoilers though.
The weather is warm and I am daydreaming of shucking my house, putting things into the RV and various trailers, and self-shifting to rural Colorado or Montana. Fortunately, the RV still lacks an engine, so there will be no impulse-moves today.