It’s been over a week since I last blogged; a week that saw a funeral, a wedding, the setting up of a summer event (more of that later in the week), further house hunting, and of course – more writing. And it’s almost 6 months since The Secret War was published… a revelation that had me laughing over the bank holiday weekend, and then despairing…
…I mean, where the hell has those 6 months gone?!!
I suspect most of the 6 months is on the laptop, encompassing one and a half drafts of the new book. There’s 6 months on this blog too (and another shit-load of words), not to mention 6 months in some degree on the promotional stuff, like radio interviews, a travel piece in the Daily Telegraph, a school visit, a very successful book launch and trips to independent bookshops and high-street chains across the country. And I’m painfully aware there’s been little time left-over for what life lies outside of my writing and the chore of the day-job.
Scant time for myself and Sarah – which I shoe-horn in when I can.
Luckily, this weekend we had more time together than usual. This weekend was the wedding - in Scotland - of two good friends, Toby (a childhood friend) and Mel (who also happens to be my web-designer). It was a cracking do, despite the "inclement" rain during the outdoor ceremony, and one that will linger in the memories of those in attendance.
However, as a sign of the times, I couldn’t switch off that writing brain. Not only did I write a couple of thousand words on the third draft (which I am now half-way through), I’ve come up with another story called The Black Hours – again a historical novel, this time set at the end of the 19th century with London under quarantine from a new virulent and devastating strain of the Black Death. Add to that the impeding doom from a lunatic with an armada of experimental zeppelins threatening London with mass destruction, and a secret agent who couldn’t care less whether London collapsed in flames or not, and you have an adventure story that could well be my next project come the Autumn.
There’s still four months to go before I make a decision, so that means at least another half-dozen novel ideas to bubble up from that fevered brain o’mine.
(At some point, I must really teach my imagination to switch off from time to time… Either that or become a full-time writer - there’s just not enough years in one life-time to write down all these stories).