I'm busy writing while watching the snow fall thickly outside. I don't fancy skating down the path so I'm happy indoors while my husband builds new (and necessary) bookcases for the front room. I have a lot of hardbacks that need a proper home as well as a lot of research books. Having three books on the go is space consuming. I have written 80k words in two months which is astonishing for me and honestly, is because I'm so enjoying the characters and story. It feels so self-indulgent to be back writing fantasy for joy.
The thing is, as I make stuff up I'm colliding with actual facts. I invented a drug that was rejected because it gave people serious (even life threatening) nightmares and guess what? An anti psychotic was withdrawn late in testing for that reason. I found studies that showed that extreme physiological stress could kill people who were suspected of having the worst nightmares. I invent a shared dream and it turns out there's quite a lot of empirical evidence for people connecting in dreams. New research leads me down some very funky paths, and that leads to new ideas in the book.
It almost makes me want to write a 'stranger than fiction' chapter at the end of each book. Or maybe a non-fiction book about some of this amazing stuff (well, I find it amazing). I am cursed with frequent and dramatic nightmares so perhaps I have an unusual level of interest.
In far more important news, my granddaughter (16 months) had her first experience of snow today! The most uncomplicated joy and curiosity that reminds me not to overthink everything.