No, that's not Springsteen you hear. It's me. Val. And I'm not engulfed in trouser flames from being a liar, liar. The fact that I finished the second Hunger Games book, Catching Fire, on Wednesday night has nothing to do with it.
I'm on fire.
I'm in the groove. I've got the itch, and it's not something that needs scratching with a neighbor's spatula after the long-fingernailed coffee shop waitress breaks up with me.
I sat down to write a submission yesterday, and it was like a long-awaited spark in the dry tinder of a Survivor contestant's fire-making challenge. One idea led to another. Even a six-hour chair nap last night did not extinguish the flame. I went to actual bed at 4:00 a.m., and could not sleep. Perhaps it wasn't so much the ideas bouncing around in my noggin as the fact that I'd already had a full (for me) night's sleep in the recliner.
This morning I arose at 5:30, all fired up. I have another submission ready to go. It's all over but the proofreadin'. Now three more stories are licking at the straw stuffing of my brain. An out-of-control gambling bus, a crazed chipmunk, and a doorstop scandal are shoving the severed skeleton and the devil with no dress on to the back burner.
Is it hot in here, or is it just me?