It’s about here I need some heralds to blow some trumpets or some bells to sound or some drunken cherubs to fall from the sky, swigging whisky and vomiting ‘he’s done it’ in formation. Seeing as I do not have any of those all I can do is announce that the first draft of book number three is complete. Of course this is where the hard work begins.
The truth is that people often imagine writing to be a sexy, exciting pursuit. The fact is that it is often like having a prolonged period of constipation, finally emptying your bowels, only to be told that you have to take your newborn turd and polish it into a diamond.
It’s is a peculiar feeling. On one hand there is a sense of achievement. On the other a funereal sense of sadness as in some respects you have to begin preparing yourself to say goodbye to the assortment of characters that have preoccupied your mind. Such is the nature of life that the moment you finish something you already have to start preparing for the next step. In this respect writing models life; it’s cyclical, a project is born, breathes, and its death is found in its completion. And there’s the truth. Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.