I’m getting ready for NaNoWriMo. (So yeah, these are written in advance, but the message is the same, right?)
I’m writing this at the home of my Superior Half, waiting until it’s time for the train back to the wilderness I call home-and-work-and-shit. I’ve got the house to myself, even the cat has headed off upstairs to crash out – after a *very* cursory goodbye.
I’m trying to balance work, physical intimacy and wringing out another novel. It’s a precarious juggling act – any one of these could take over my life completely. November’s when I try to ram all my eggs into the one (NaNo) basket.
I’m trying a new method of characterisation this time, too. Downloading photographs of complete strangers and sketching my creations from there.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.