I had some thoughts towards a new book on the flight over. They are good thoughts, I think. Intriguing thoughts. I have some time now, and I could start actually writing the book. But as soon as I start writing, the Platonic ideal of the book will disappear. The book in potentia is always so much more perfect than the book in actuality. I want to write the new book, which has a fire, a house renovation, a murder (perhaps), poly folks, a South Asian detective, a friendly bookstore / cafe that serves samosas and chai, a maker-space, a woman struggling to make art out of old books, thread and self-doubt. I want to write it rather badly. But I am not ready to destroy the reality that lives in the cave, to shape it into a twisted, flickering shadow of itself. Not yet.