I’ve been writing most of the night, in longhand.

I should be editing plays, rewriting older works and getting them ready for submission. There’s a list of proposals and estimates for work to be done this week. I’ve got a redesign of the site — this site — to get done sometime before the snow falls. There’s about fifty new photos to process and manipulate and post. And tomorrow’s October — a whole new month of ghost pictures to get ready for.

But I’ve been writing, in longhand, about two nameless children wandering in a black and white world. I’ve got seven chapters already, and they’re barely to the river.

It’s like an obsession, a flirtation that occupies your mind and you find you can think of nothing else. They’re there, in my head, and when I’m not writing their story I feel guilty for denying them the next line, the next episode that gets them closer to their journey.

And yes, I’m aware that this makes no sense at all. And it won’t for what is most likely months and months. Writing in longhand means giving up the the electronic world of postings and drafts and saving backups. I’ve got a bound book that I carry around with me everywhere, terrified it should get lost or stolen. It’s like having a new child to protect from the world.

It’s a good story. I can’t stop writing it.

I can’t remember feeling this grateful for something I’ve been given.

God. It’s late. I’ve got to read something before I go to bed. Otherwise, I’ll never sleep.

Good night…