I wonder sometimes if I am in my right mind.  Since deciding I want to be a writer, a published one, it is all I can think about.  I found one of my threads from that tangled mess I wrote about in my first post.  It is one I can unwind without creating much of a ripple in the rest of my life.  I can always afford a pen and paper.

But since committing to this idea and running with it, I go stir crazy at work.  I’m annoyed to have to think about my paperwork while I have research to do and goals to set.  Meaningful ones.  I sneak on websites about developing plots, finding publishers, choosing editors . . . anything on writing.  And it’s not just at work.  I’ll have panicked moments on car rides to it doesn’t matter where, searching for a pen to write down the idea that just struck.  Seriously, panicked.

And then there is the chronic itch of curiosity about what my little Katrine is going to get into next.   Now Katrine is not my child, and I have three very real and very wonderful children.  She is this fictitious fourth “child” of mine that I can’t seem to stop writing about, the center of two picture books and an ongoing chapter book (which I am not even quite sure how to go about writing.) 

I probably have over 50 pages of random scenes in this “life” I’m making up.  These little snippets.  Little pearls that must be included when I get to stringing this little story together.  Though I have been assured by others who write that this is quite normal, I have to wonder, how can this not be some sort of sweet madness?