Fickle

I can't believe I've just spent most of this afternoon writing. And on something that is entirely not my novel.
It's not that the novel is finished, or all the trouble spots are fixed, or I'm even through with the rough draft, or I know how it will come out. No. None of that. It's that my brain is rebelling, and won't give me anything for Frank and Mica to do.
No, now I have about twenty pages of a steam punk thing that's been in the back of my head for a while. Twenty pages, and it's not a novel. I say that, but I can see where it's already too long to be a short story. Fantastic.
Truthfully, I've enjoyed ever minute of it so far. I love tinkering with new things, and by definition, a novel at two hundred plus pages isn't new. So, what am I? Twelve or something?
No, it's just that I know that good ideas are limited, and I'm afraid if I don't write down what I'm thinking about right now that I'll forget and lose it compleatly. Sound nuts? I'm not denying that, although, in my defense, I am old.
So tomorrow, I promise, more demony stuff. More words. More pages.... Tomorrow.