I know of people who are so brimming with plots that they're spoilt for choice. As soon as they've finished one novel, they're on to the next. Some even write two or more at a time.
And then there are people like me. As someone once said, the plot for a first novel is relatively easy, since that's the book you've (probably) been incubating for years. Hence the notoriously difficult second novel. I seem to have second novel syndrome each time. It takes me ages to happen upon (that's usually how it seems) a good enough new plot. It's a bit like trying to get pregnant, without any of the fun. So here I am, wasting time blogging (between Christmas shopping, and making mince pies), and waiting for that plot to drop into my head. Which is quite frightening, since maybe it won't. Maybe I'll never have another plot or write another novel. I rather envy the NaNo people, who had the discipline to write a novel in a month. The imperative to write may well have inspired the plot. Too late for me this year (although there's no reason why I can't set myself a personal NaNo). I've got a vague plot about people stuck in ia lift, but is that enough for a novel? If I were an Ian McEwan, certainly it would be. Sadly, I'm not.
On a lighter note, I read in the paper today that a company is designing larger cat flaps for fatter cats, since apparently feline obesity is becoming a problem, and ordinary cat flaps are too small. This got me wondering: there must be a fine line between a fat cat and thin burglar. I hope they know what they're doing.