A Discovery of Witches. And books.

I've been enjoying A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness; it's putting me in the mood for some strong English tea, which I'll be drinking during our trip to the Cotswolds and Bath next month! (This book has also cut down dramatically on my TV watching, which has been eye-opening.)

As this is my reading time, I'm overloaded with books: I have Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel on my bookshelf, and I've received the novel Elizabeth I by Margaret George – my favorite historical author tackling one of the most fascinating monarchs! I'm so eager to pick that book up next, though it may be a bit hefty for traveling (this is the first time ever that I've wanted a kindle).

And in the midst of all of this wonderful reading time, there remains a little part of me that feels…twitchy. Shouldn't I be writing something? I alternately fantasize about writing, or suffer nightmares about the work I should be doing. My Nanowrimo book is awaiting another rewrite, and she's getting impatient. But I'm still waiting to hear back from my agent about the New Pages I sent him a few weeks ago. Why work on one book when I might be sidetracked by the other? I have to keep these voices distinct in my head.

Maybe I'm picking up these very thick books as a way to tempt fate: certainly I will receive an email about the aforementioned pages when I'm 200 pages into 800. I could make Murphy's law work for me, right? I really would like to hear about those New Pages…

But the book-reading is very important; a part of the writing process, really. I'll worry about my rewrites when we get back from our hop across the pond next month.