Last weekend I sat down to do a close table edit of the last 150 pages of my novel, and the next book insisted on itself, instead. It started pouring out of me, in screenplay form, in a fully-realized way I thought would take at least 6 months of outlining to achieve.

Sometimes, it’s just that easy.

Of course, it helps that this is a story I’m intimate with, having written it to death, already. I tried all kinds of convolutions, over the course of five years–the story never worked. So I put it down for seven years. Now the story seems to be telling itself. 

Once upon a time, I would panic about a gift like this:  I would think I had to keep going, going, if I put the pages down, the muse will never come back–that my work was at the mercy of whim. I still have my superstitions. I write with the same pen until it runs out. I don’t talk too much about plot. But I am not afraid that the words will leave me. I’ve paid my price on this one!

It’s beautiful when the writing machine hits three lemons and the silver dollars start spilling out….