I sat down last night and got some of the details worked out and wrapped my head around where the story begins and where it's going.
I already know the beginning and I already know the end and I already know some of the intricacies. What I have yet to discover is the middle that ties it all together. But I literally fell asleep with my laptop on my lap, sitting on my couch, fingers resting on the keys and my cursor blinking rhythmically in the midst of an idea that had yet to be written in a full sentence.
I am infected with the bug that writers get when ideas fall from their imaginations onto little scraps of paper, napkins with sketches of where a character lives, backs of envelopes with exactly the right name for the best friend, the palms of hands with chicken scratched ideas about the way an engine sounds as a car attempts a hill, a bill they will later pay after removing a section with the perfect description of exactly the right tree.
This bug entered me just before 1:47 am on a rainy Wednesday morning while I lay sleeping in bath water that had grown cold as the water had been drawn hot over an hour before while I soaked, reading a book someone else had written that I happen to be not enjoying all that much as imagination seems to have escaped this particular author in this particular novel, therefore I will not mention the name of the writer or that of the writing. What I will say is that I put the book down after reading several pages and I moved the bubbles about a bit while thinking about the lack of imagination in the writing I was reading and promptly fell asleep without even realizing I was drifting.