I have been living for over a month in a cabin on the outskirts

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I have been living for over a month in a cabin on the outskirts of Haugesund passed down to my family by my now-deceased grandparents. At first I spent most of my time reading, and then I started to write a novel which I still plan to complete at some point. I have also, as some of you may know, fallen in love with a beautiful and intelligent girl who is at this very moment shopping for tennis rackets in town. Two nights ago, afflicted by a Dostoevskian sense of anomie and despair, I left my cabin late at night and walked through an intense rainstorm through the dark hills nearby, pleading with some powerful force to unburden me from the weight of my intellect and self-awareness, which has lately become so burdensome that I am struggling to appreciate anything in life as compensatory for the suffering and struggle that my sensitivity and heightened state of consciousness imposes.. Little did I expect that my pleading, my prayers even, would be answered. I had reached the summit of a craggy hill from which I could see the distant lights of Haugesund glowing faintly in the distance. I was wearing my long dark overcoat, which I had purchased in a charity store in Oslo before moving here as it appealed to me due to its association, in my mind, with the image of the poverty-stricken artistic genius. This coat was affording me little warmth or comfort however on account of the heavy rain making it damp and heavy. I was pale and shivering, on the verge of the kind of existential crises which served as a precursor no-doubt to the mental collapse of individuals such as Nietzsche and Van Gogh. But then, on my knees in the thick wet earth, my wet hair sticking to my face, tears pouring from my eyes as I contemplated just how much of a Zarathustra-esque figure I must have then appeared, a flash of lightning illuminated the peaks of some distant mountains, and in those few seconds before the thunder that followed, in a moment in which all sound and movement seemed to have ceased entirely, there entered into my mental landscape a vision so overpowering that when it faded away I was left gasping and open-mouthed. What this vision is will remain a secret to me until the work of art it has ushered into being is completed. But what a moment that was in my life. Never before and never again will the fundamental aspects of existence appear so lucid in my mind.

Has anybody else here experienced a sudden idea for a novel so overwhelming and so insistent that you have discarded everything else you were writing in order to dedicated yourself to it entirely?