Aspiring writer seeks new tale

I've been searching for a handle on my new novel. Hang on. New novel? No. On the idea I've had for my next novel. The one I'm going to write next. Yes, I've finished one already. All bar the shouting. Where shouting equals dealing with the comments of reviewers, maybe a little bit of rework and a final polish. And then more shouting at all the letters of rejection I'll undoubtedly receive from agents and/or publishers. All part of the game, I'm sure. I take a philosophical view. The writing is not about the publishing. It's about the writing. About having a tale to tell, and telling it. Whether anyone reads it is neither here nor there. That's the tale I tell myself, when I'm not telling myself one of the other tales.

So having finished one tale, I've been on a hunt for more tale. A new tale. And I think this is where writers get their reputation for being hard to live with. Because it's been occupying me. Pre-occupying me, even. When I'm cooking, I'm plotting. When I'm eating, I'm plotting. When I'm watching telly, I'm plotting. What was that you said dear? Sorry, what? Didn't quite catch that. Oh yes, pre-occupied all right. Especially when driving.

I can't quite put my finger on when I first crossed the line between having to think about driving, and arriving home having no conscious memory of the journey. It was probably thirty years ago. At least. Autopilot is one thing I do really well. I think I may also have mentioned my least favourite journey. The one where I come home from returning my daughters to their home(s). Their home that is not with me. The loneliest journey. The one that is the furthest away in time from the next time I see them. And therefore, in many ways, the most perfect journey for plotting a new tale (JB: silver linings a speciality).

I've considered several options for book #2 (as it will certainly be known for a while, before revelling in a working title and then, some way down track, being gifted with a real title. Apparently it is at least possible a publisher (at the point where the shouting ceases) will, even later, require a final change of title, but that's a subject for another day), but none of them really felt right. Yesterday, sometime during The Loneliest Journey, I hit upon something that felt right. Not only right, it gave me chills. Scarily right. Challengingly right. It will be a stretch, but like a cat, I enjoy stretching.