An embarrassing fecundity.

This has been such a productive writing session, that I've arranged to get the rest of the week off so I can continue writing.  I'll probably be done with the first draft by the end.   (Nine days or so.)  I'm nearly 3/4th of the way already.

Strike while the inspiration is hot.

Then I'm going to set the manuscript aside for a couple of weeks, come back to it fresh, and see if anything calls out to me to be changed.  Not with any thought of imposing ideas from the outside, but finding the art where it is.

I've been thinking quite a bit about what this all means.  This profligacy. This embarrassing fecundity.  As I mentioned a few weeks ago, "If a book isn't read, does it really exist?"

I've decided that all books are read to a greater or lessor extent -- whether it's the one reader (the author) or the multitudes.  All books have their highs and lows throughout the history of their existence. 

I used to think that writing for my own sake wasn't enough.

I still don't.

I need just the slightest possibility, the wispyist hint that someone, somewhere might read it someday somehow.

I don't need much.

Why that makes a difference, I don't know.

So the online option is all I needed to open the floodgates, apparently.

I'm not sure how I'll respond when reality hits.  Hopefully, I'll keep writing with the above "wispyist hints' still intact.