It's just occurred to me that this is the last working day of September. This has a number of interesting ramifications. First, I somehow need to get my tax return compiled and submitted before the end of the day. This should be manageable, although the less time I leave the more likely it is I'll screw something up and have Her Maj's Excise Drones knocking on the door threatening to sell my stuff.

 

Secondly, I promised myself I get back to writing at the start of October. In a fit of bravado (beer) and over confidence (the half-bottle of wine afterwards) I decided that I'll have the first draft of my latest book ready before the new year.

 

There are a number of approaches to writing a good book – and plenty of books dedicated to the practice of writing novels. These usually include important items such as planning the story (I rarely bother) and knowing your protagonists before you start (at least I've got that bit sorted). Personally, I believe in sticking two fingers up to the rule book and chucking it in the bin (or recycle box, it’s your call). The art of writing is in the writing itself. That might sound obvious, but try writing a book one day. You’ll be surprised at how much fannying around you can do before you actually commit a blessed word to paper. It’s your characters that count. You might have a story in mind, but ultimately, they’re the ones who drive it. They’ll always finish in a different place to the one you imagined for them.

 

I also have a desperately pretentious intro in mind. I like those. They make me feel warm and fuzzy and hopefully prove to be a sign of better things to come. It certainly means that whatever follows is unlikely to be worse...

 

So barring the hang-over the hangover I'm lining up for tomorrow, getting my first born to the Valentine Walker 50th anniversary show at Redhill's Harlequin Theatre (or feerta, as the locals call) where she's dancing in three performances and anything else that crops up, I might just have a sublimely awful prologue on this blog early next week.

Good news! Man-flu is no longer forcing gunk out of my face. It's all pooling in my lungs instead giving my voice a nice Orson-Welles-Sherry-Ad kind of timbre.

 

Onwards and upwards.

 

Oh. And here's how to make a flamethrower out of Lego. Things like this make me happy.

 

 

With the only silver lining on the horizon still the little bit of plastic you unwrap to get into a packet of tissues, I've found myself turning to thoughts of next month as a way to drag myself out of my current malaise. So:

 

1) I'm going to go out on one final hike this year. Most likely this will involve picking my way around bogs on Dartmoor in driving rain for three nights. Believe it or not, I consider this to be fun. That, in itself, is not too challenging (unless I pick up a repeat dose of man-flu on the way). The difficulty comes in persuading Spouse to let me fly the coup during half-term, leaving her to entertain a hyperactive four-year-old with a goth complex for four days.

 

2) It's time I started writing again. Since finishing my last book at the back-end of '05 I've done a magnificent job of procrastinating. Rather than go back and do the rewrite on that story, I'm going to kick off a whole new one. I did think about signing up again for NaNoWriMo (a challenge to write a novel in 30 days - I managed an anaemic 30k last time), but decided that I shouldn't wait that long. Hence I'm planning the story now and will kick it off this weekend. If I kick myself hard enough, and often enough, up the backside I might just finish in time for Christmas. I'll post extracts in this blog as it comes together.