Tall Grasses

I'm currently experiencing the high every writer feels when they reach the point in a new story wherein the last thing you think about before drifting off is your character's dialogue.  It's also begun to permeate every other facet of my thought processes: I dream about the plot; I'm eschewing frivolous regularities, such as eating, in lieu of my notebook; and, lately, my sessions reading books on film theory, about didacticism and reification, are largely resulting with me reaching the end of the page and realising I wasn't actually paying attention to the content, instead, again, listening to the conversation between two characters in my head.

It's a magical time.  I'm on the ridge.  Before me is the next ridge, but before that, the trough - the long, disenchanting descent and, then, even longer ascent.  On the way to the next high, I will be assuredly bitter, repeatedly thwarted by as yet unknown forces (as we always are), but, for now, I can look down at it and smile.  I'm on top of the world.