In an interview, someone, I think it was either Carol Shield or Margaret Atwood, once summed up her life by saying that when she was writing she didn't have a life and when she had a life she wasn't writing.

Ditto here. When I am in the thick of a novel, I barely floss my teeth never mind tending to concerns of the "real world." (When my daughter was a teenager she told me she thought writers should be hermits.)

But when I finish a project, suddenly - as if I am crawling out of a cave - I blink in the blaze of a life long neglected. My days are filled with little excursions. I buy shoes, lunch with friends, catch the movie everyone in the country but me has seen. I fill with nesting energy. I furiously clean closets and kitchen cabinets. I put order back into the life I have reclaimed.

This can go on for days and weeks. Sometimes months. And then one morning, I wake, a cloak of dissatisfaction weighing heavy on my shoulders. I am antsy. Itchy. I have no interest in painting woodwork, or pruning back the hydrangeas, or making one more plan to meet a friend for coffee or a glass of wine. The hunger to be writing consumes me.

Last week I finished the revisions for my new book. SInce then I have cleaned five closets. I have reconnected with friends. I have started the onerous task of clearing out the clutter in my studio and culling my files. I've recommitted to my fitness plan. I'm reading other authors' books and preparing cover blurbs.

The itch hasn't started yet. Stay tuned. It's only a matter of time.