That’s 1919 finished. I got the new artwork this afternoon and it’s looking groovy. All I have to do now is add the artist’s contact details to the endstuff and it’s ready to take on the meatgrinder.
It’s taken about seven years from first sitting down to write it to finally having the whole thing out there where people can touch it with their own skin.
Of course, I’m already working on what-comes-next. Another novel, later this year. Another next spring. And after that? Probably a monstrous eternity, shrieking in a lake of fire, as far as the eye can see. That’s the plan, anyhoo.
I suppose, looking back, ‘Erotic cleansing’ was all the mistakes I could make, writing a novel and ‘1919’ was all the mistakes one could make preparing one for publication. Now I’ve got that under my belt, I can teach myself everything that could possibly go wrNog grabbing the attention of those already happier than I am.
I’m exhausted. My skull’s battered. I feel like I just did fifteen rounds with a sabre-toothed Jehova’s witness. Tonight shall be spent, staring at Mistress Jinty’s enormous telly, lapping up ‘Old boy’ (which she’s NEVER seen!!!) and tomorrow, I’ll get started on the what-comes-next. Probably.