I'm sure anyone who has been bitten by the so called Midnight Disease knows what I'm talking about but I'll try to explain it for everyone else.
My brain is carbonated.
Bubbles are expanding and exploding all along my brain stem. Each burst is a symbol, a signal, a sign, a vision of some poor chap's future.
I've invented him and I will destroy him.
Writing is masturbation. It really is.
For the past few months and years really, I've had this idea build in my brain. Bricks of thought stacked upon one another until the sad tale of protagonist could rival Giza. I literally can not have a moment wherein I don't think about the assorted jerks who've moved into my brain and are immovable.
I had this before, several times, except for the most part it has been for shorts and flashes not for BIG projects as the one I'm currently incubating. The only other time my percolating muse has been this insistent for a novel, I started too too soon and got hung up in a desert somewhere in Southern California with no real reason to return to the city.
So I'm hesitant. I've these great characters and a whole journal of notes but I'm a might gunshy on beginning. There's always more research!
Or maybe I'm lazy.