When Death Comes to Take You

DH and I are planning to buy a house. Part of the discussion is whether to buy something already constructed or to build. Part of the discussion  is whether this will be our last move at all and how should we plan for not being able to get around.

The discussion turned to actual scheduling of looking at the current houses on the market, the ones that meet our specific needs. Scheduling these viewings around my writing and publishing schedule. Basically, my very full until September schedule.

And somehow, the discussion turned to what I'd write next. There's a ton of stuff I've started and I want to finish. There's some ideas in genres I have yet to try, and I mentioned a specific idea. DH asked when I would write that one. I said I don't know. And the real reason hit me.

I don't know if I'll live long enough to write it.

It's not that I fear death. I'm simply acknowledging that my time on this planet is more finite than it was last year.

Or ten, twenty, thirty years ago.

I have folders full of vague ideas, outlines, and partially written stories. Enough that if I typed a thousand words a day, it would take me a century to write them all.

And I'm constantly getting new ideas. Spin-offs from already established series. Things that are completely new. What-ifs from non-fiction things I see in the news or on the street.

I honestly don't understand how any writer can get stuck. I'm merely disappointed I won't finish all of my stories before I leave.

If you want a lovely story of Life and Death, click this link.