In the weeks since I handed my completed manuscript to my agent, I've had a bit of a relax (pronounced RE-lax). Taken time to unwind, let the story I have written seep from my veins (a difficult thing, really, since I lived in that world for two years and saying goodbye is slow and reluctant), and rest my poor brain.
I've been reading.
Heavens above there are wonderful books out there. So many great books. Anyone who tells you that all the novels being published these days are trash are either 1) reading the wrong books, or 2) a new writer at work on his/her first novel (the one that will 'show 'em all how it's done').
It's been a grand time.
Another story seeps into my veins. I can't hold it back, I don't even try.
So, in the time in between the finishing and the (dear God please) publishing, there is writing. Another story. Another storyworld that forms in the peripheral urging toward creation.
The time in between is the time to pick up the pen.