I feel you, Colm.
I’m reading a Murderbot novelette, and I keep having ideas for my space opera series — not even the novel I’m supposed to be actually finishing now, that I’m almost done revising, but the related series that is just a big jumbled mess, and which I wasn’t planing to even look at again until September or maybe October, and part of me wants to stay up and write some more right now.
But the rest of me says that I have to be ready to go get on a tour bus at 9 a.m. tomorrow, to go see Newgrange and the Hill of Tara, and that will undoubtedly spark lots more ideas, so just — make a note, Mary Anne.
(Yes, the rock used for dwelling walls on the indenture planet should have invisible inclusions that glow brilliantly when you sing to them, and it’s tied up with their religion but will also make for an awesome ceilidh scene when the pregnant Sri Lankan girl shows up there, cold and lonely and broken-hearted…)
Make a note, and then go to sleep. You’re still jet-lagged, and you were rather desperately short on sleep coming into this vacation. SLEEP.