I woke up at 06:30. I was an unshaven middle-aged man in the middle of a double bed. I nodded. This has happened before – and not just to me.

The torrential rain yesterday had made it impossible to hook up with Colonel Teen Parker and go to see the Neil Campbell & Michael Flower duo last night.

I’d lay in bed, finishing “the consummata” – an unfinished Mickey Spillane manuscript, brought lovingly to life by Max Allan Collins. Next up in my to-read list is EL James’ “fifty shades of shite”.

So I dug out my PDA and started fillying with the plot for next month’s novel (working title: ‘dystopias’).

Stephen Donaldson reckons it takes two ideas to make a plot – and that seems to hold water, so I began working through the action of the novel, focusing almost entirely on the male and female leads. I completed two of my arbitrary sections of it last night and a further two this morning.

Then I started on the ‘snuff’ manuscript. I’d run through two dozen pages by 09:30. Had something to eat and went out.

Laura Hird said a few years back in an interview that writers are always recognisable by the long fingers from all the typing and the huge fat arses from all the sitting. My strategy to combat this is to get in as much walking as I can.

I headed for the nearest halfway-reasonable supermarket – two towns away. It took about an hour and I got a bus back.

It’s always a plus, getting out for a walk. Letting the wind blow my hair about and nibbling away at the bits of story bouncing around my skull. And that’s apart from the whole ‘arse’ thing.

Came back, tired but exhausted and battered into ‘snuff’ again. Completed another four dozen pages, taking today’s output up to just over seventy pages by 18:00.

I should probably shout “boo-yah!” right about now.

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