Me to self: Are you serious?

Blah, blah, blah. Whine, whine, whine. Seems like I've spent much of the past few months talking (to myself, at least) about how much I'm looking forward to "just making stuff up" once I cleared my current nonfiction project, Pasta, off my to-do list, even if only temporarily.

Well, on Friday, I did, submitting two sample chapters and a host of summaries suggesting additional profile subjects. And so, for the first time in ages, I'm facing no deadlines -- self-imposed, agent-suggested, or contractually mandated. I have no writing obligations to anyone but myself, and I've got several fiction ideas to choose from.

So, how did I spend my leisure time this weekend? By reading an adult nonfiction book that directly ties into the next picture book biography I've got in mind. Why can't I give myself a break?

My wife says it's because, at heart, I'm a reportorial storyteller. I think it might be because I'm a chump.