I’ve been working on a novel series for a while. It took a few level-up style exercises to get here. It’s been working, and I’m currently doing the pre-writing exercises for Book 3.

It’s not really a trilogy, or I would be happy. And then my scope creep friend enters the conversation, and I’m done for. Really. Truly. Done for.

Because tonight I realized I needed an extra book. It’s not that I need another book. But I desperately want to write it. And I think I need to level up again.

I think a couple of my characters, Audrey in particular, want to be activists. Audrey wants to run around the galaxy freeing the oppressed and creating new havens for the displaced. Audrey finds more trouble to get into than I can keep her out of, and I’m worried she’s going to drag her friends into scary stuff they might not survive. Maybe I should say they won’t all survive. I already knew that, though, but this escalates it.

Isn’t it fun to write? Isn’t it fun to have bigger and better ideas as you go, and trying to keep up with all of them while also doing the other things life demands?

I also figure if Audrey’s getting into trouble, Ichek is not far behind. I’m almost positive I’m going to have an entire Zoo War book on my hands and be helplessly blocking all those movements. Must be time to ask all those veterans I work with how that might go down. Call it a group project and don’t mention aliens… I can’t see how that can go badly. (Ahahahaha they already think I’m weird.)

Sometimes I think of how some male writers in the past had wives or mothers to make them food and to take care of the chores, and I imagine what I could do with that kind of time. Pardon me, but it’s time to rescue the poor kitty from my son again, referee yet another disagreement between the kids, and somehow make sure everyone eats enough before we try to sleep. Is it time to sleep yet? If it isn’t, please lie to me.