Whenever I come to the very end of a project, I achieve this strange mental state. It’s the result of extreme fatigue combined with excitement. My eyes tire from staring at the monitor for too long. My thought process begins to deteriorate and I find myself forgetting obvious things. I can still write, of course. Every day, I put those headphones on, start up my playlist, and go right into novel-brain.

I just can’t do anything else. Like remember where my glasses are. I guess it’s a kind of periodic writer’s dementia. And it’s happened with every novel or short story I’ve ever written. Each one has drained me of every last drop of verbal juice. There’s nothing left. At the very least, dear readers, I can promise you that every story I have transferred upon the minds of others has made its way into the world on fumes.

I’m not complaining. But I wish I could find my glasses.