My take on post-novel ennui is a distinct feeling of Lack of Purpose. Instead of rolling around in my free(r) time, I'm vaguely grumpy and unsettledownable. Much like at the end of a semester of higher education, it's not that I spent every waking moment attending to the project at hand, but every second of free time taken away from the project was weighted with import.

The easy and obvious answer is to fill up the time with other projects, but somehow, the gravity of those things is not anchoring me to them.

In other news, I went to the North concert last night, and it was so very much fun. A large part of the fun was simply basking in the family-esque glow of _earthshine_ and mcniadh's effort. It was their CD release party/concert, and it's so very, very different than how any event that I will ever throw, should I be so lucky as to have a book release to celebrate.

Of course, it's in our natures to be jealous, even of such mundane things as "your art is more fun than my art." (Or: "Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope..." thanks, Will. You always know what I'm thinking four hundred years before I think it.) Pretty much, no matter what I do in the writing world, I will not be a rockstar. People will not join in on the chorus of my songs. This is how it is, but that doesn't mean I don't regret that I don't have a moment in the dark to give to people. If for no other reason that novels, mostly, needs must be enjoyed with good lighting.

At the same time, my performances will (she hopes) be bound and sit on people's shelves for a long time.

So, maybe I'll get over it. Maybe I already am.