Last week I was full of writerly ambition and met my two immediate goals--submitting SPIDER FINGERS to an agent and sending a short story to a contest. Since I mailed the short story on Thursday, I knew I wouldn't immediately start another project on Friday, but here we are, in the middle of a rainy Monday afternoon, and I still haven't settled on which of three possible projects I'll choose.

Instead, I've been cleaning. I washed the kitchen-type items we brought back from this past weekend of The Great Sorting--some things for BD, "common glasses" (that's what the label on the musty box said) that were Nana's.

 While they're not crystal, I wouldn't call them common, would you?

I've also sorted out the contents of a window seat in the kitchen, emptied a trunk that will soon go into storage, and sifted the games cupboard.

Part way through the games cupboard it hit me--all this cleaning at home, while long overdue because of travel for The Great Sorting, isn't happening because once I got started on the house in CT, I wanted to spend more and more time organizing. Nope. I'm getting ready for the next novel, the way expectant parents prepare for the arrival of a new child. This cleaning frenzy is nesting behavior. That means that soon (with any luck tomorrow, when I don't have any meetings, appointments, deadlines, or other distractions on my calendar) I'll be writing, writing, writing.

At least, so I hope.

P.S. While we're still in Shakespeare's month, I highly recommend Christopher Moore's Fool, a bawdy romp, mostly through King Lear, but with plenty of references to other plays. I somehow think Chaucer would also have recognized this one. In fact, I seem to be on a bit of a "fun with medieval times" bender lately. Last night we watched A Knight's Tale again.