The nights feel weirdly empty without a novel to work on. It’s just this long strange stretch of time. Of course, I have plenty of work, but there’s still a hollowness, an echoing silence. The room is quiet, I’ve got a couple of beers in me (Newcastle, if you must know) and New Young Pony Club on the headphones. Music doesn’t drown out those blaring alarm clocks though. You know the ones. The Other Projects.  As soon as I type “The End” (rather literally or figuratively), and set a finished manuscript aside, the alarms spring to life, each one ringing more loudly, shrilly and more insistently than the others, wanting to be heard.

Each story elects one character as its representative, and they stream forward like supplicants approaching the queen upon her throne, their arms piled high with offerings. We’ll let you talk about cannibalism & leeches, says one. Remember that scene in the country, those bare backs splayed across hot, sun-soaked boulders, prods another. Choose me, cries the memoir. I’ll hold your hair back while you purge.

How do I want to feel for the next year? What squirrelly set of emotions shall I choose to immerse myself in? Which sensations do I crave? What do I have the stamina for? Should I reward myself by writing something light and fun, or dive into the abyss and swim for the bottom?

Being between projects–it’s like being a spirit in limbo.I have to find my way back to the land of the living and shut off those damned clocks. To get there, I have to listen and answer the call of the story that most needs telling. Once I’m committed to the project, the hours will again have purpose. But until then, ice cream.