I am beginning to feel like Moira Shearer who can’t stop dancing in The Red Shoes. After spending most of my adult life writing for others, I want to write, write, write for myself. I think about things I want to write while I’m on my way to work, when I take a cigarette break, when I’m watering the garden, when I’m working on a grant proposal, down the grocery aisle and at the stoplight, as I’m breathing. It’s as if I’m bursting with decades of words. Or words are tiny stars and I pluck them out of the universe and the infinity of the universe doesn’t mind, doesn’t miss them. I want them all. All those shiny, precious, maddening words. I can’t stop.