It’s time.

I think it’s time to start writing another novel.

Or perhaps it’s more that I feel it’s time. This isn’t a conscious – let alone rational – decision. I mean, rationally, why would you? Why would anyone? Do this. Spend hours a day, for months, slogging away in isolation, for very little financial reward. I do make a small amount of money from my books, but when you convert it to an hourly rate it’s well below the minimum wage. The simple fact is, I couldn’t survive without my day job.

So, yeah, better not to ask the question. Why? It’s certainly not for the money.

I sent my last book, The White Feather Killer, off to my editor at the end of October, last year.

So basically I’ve had November and December off. Except I think my subconscious has been busy. Which is why, I think, I have to start a new project. It’s been bubbling up inside me you see.

Of course, I could just ignore it.

Hope that it goes away.

But something happens to me when I ignore my subconscious. I get edgy. Grumpy. I can’t settle to anything. I feel like there’s something I should be doing.

I can try displacement activities. Like replacing the element on the oven. That went well. Not. Or shaving the cats. Or failing that, taking them to the vets for their annual injections.

But really I know what that itchy antsy feeling means.

It means it’s time to start writing another novel.

I only hope my publisher agrees.

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