I am drowning in books. …

I am drowning in books. And for the first time, I don't mean books to read. I mean books to write. Actual, full-length books. I was already working on three different books:

• Arbitrary Passions: creative nonfiction travelogue / memoir / politics -- first draft completed; aim to complete second and send-out draft by mid-July
• Rasathi: YA fantasy (possibly first book in trilogy) -- three-quarters drafted; aim to complete full draft by mid-August
• Kamala: mainstream novel featuring Kamala from Bodies in Motion and her family; that's only a working title -- one chapter written

That seems like plenty, right? So why did I drop my agent a note yesterday saying that I had an idea for a new nonfiction book, and sending him a page of proposal on it, asking if he thought it was worth doing a more fully-fleshed proposal? Did I think he'd just say no, bad idea, and I could get the idea out of my head? Because if so, that's totally backfired -- he said sounds good, do a full proposal. So now I have to take a few days to do a proposal and send it to him, and if he sells it, then I have to actually write the damn thing, probably bumping all the other books down in the schedule.

Did I mention that Kev and I are vaguely thinking that when the summer's over, we may start addressing the whole second-kid issue? And given that, and starting the new job at UIC in the fall, I really don't expect to have much writing time during the next school year. So I have to get lots and lots and lots of writing done this summer, and if books don't get finished then, they're going to keep bouncing around angrily in my head, demanding to be written, and I'll just have to whimper pathetically that I really don't have time right now, so would they please shut up while I finish vomiting in this bucket and then go start the next batch of essay grading...

I'm borrowing trouble. I'll do the proposal, I'll give it to Bob, he won't sell it, and then I have no problems, right? Right?

Oh, the book? It's a book on writing. Sort of a cross between Writing Down the Bones, Steering the Craft and Writing the Other. Yes, apparently I'm arrogant enough to think I'm ready to write a book on writing, and people will want to read it. Fear me.