How bittersweet. My first book, of narrative nonfiction, is about to be published, and I should be thinking only about that.

And yet, about 2 years ago, I had a great idea for a novel. I ignored it, but the idea kept coming back. (As it happens, that is how I winnow idea wheat from idea chaff: I pay serious attention to ideas only once they reassert themselves.)

So yesterday, I was in Sirsasana (headstand) when the entire novel arrived. In my head, as though shaken down by gravity. All at once, fully formed, with idea, characters, plot and twists. Title. Beginning. End. The whole dang thing.

I like it. Love it, actually. And I reckon, now that it has presented itself, I could write the thing in a few good weekends.

But as I said: I should be talking only about Hannibal and Me. And yet, my imagination really wants to go that new place already….