‘Dreich noir’ is coming along great at the moment.

My strategy is to get up each morning, get myself a large tea and start writing. I have half a dozen or so ready to be edited, polished and uploaded.

I’m going through another phase of really liking him again, which doesn’t always happen. I can find myself objecting to him, quite easily, in fact.

But for now, I’m enjoying our early morning conversations.

I must’ve been writing this for about a year now, just grabbing moments when I can and adding to it. Like piling a supermarket trolley high and precarious and trying to negotiate it over a car park carpet bombed with the sun in my eyes.

Since I started writing it, I’ve been evicted from my home, bounced from a friend’s place to a bed and breakfast to a homeless shelter to this flat. I’ve written first drafts of four novels, started a new job and got lost in Hurricane Bawbag when it hit Scotland in December.

Last night, I strong-armed the artist into handing over the cover for ‘1919’ as it stands.

It’s been up on bricks for weeks waiting on this perfectionist being satisfied with his efforts!

And it looks brilliant – but (and it’s a massive but) I can see that it isn’t perfect.

I’ve been like that with the text, smoothing and polishing it, so it’s only appropriate that someone more skilled in the visual arts would be just as OCD about the cover.

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