Possibly, I’ve had one of those past-life experiences over the last day or two. Which is all very subjective – and those reading this who’ve never met me will no doubt be scratching your heads and wondering whether I’ve been subjected to a serious head injury, poison-berries, or both.

Those of you who have had a close encounter of the third kind are fully entitled to shake your heads sadly and consider me a textbook case of what happens when someone is starved of fresh air, natural light and human companionship for as long as I have been.

For the record, I’m not one hundred percent convinced. However, the theory does explain a number of things I’ve been turning over in my mind for several years now.

And, on top of that, with November’s novel hanging over my head as it is, submerging myself in this sort of theoretical model can shake loose any habits or ruts I may have slipped into with regard to plotting and/or characterisation. Which has to be a positive.

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