In one week: I start working on the first draft of a new book.

New book. First draft.

Cue the butterflies in my stomach, performing their usual air-show feats.

Oh first drafts. So much excitement, so much rush, so many ideas in my mind when I sit down to work, so that I feel like a little god over my fictional universe... and then all the brilliant ideas flee.

Like roaches scattering when the kitchen light turns on.

And the whole world narrows down to me, and page one.

And I can't always remember why I'm doing this at all. Or where my ideas went. Or why I ever thought they were good. Or if I even have a decent working knowledge of language, period.

But hey. This is my fifth first-draft-of-a-novel. I know the process.

And I know that if you want to find those ideas, you might have to get down on your hands and knees and crawl to those hard-to-reach corners. You get to the places with all the lint and dirt and raisins-that-rolled-away and toast fragments and very old cheese crumbs.

And you find the ideas and drag them out. And put them to work.

So. If, in a week, I start feeling panicky, I'll just remember this brilliant quote from Charles Baudelaire: