I’m having a lunch hour today.
It seems that dead bodies, decomposition and all other gory details surrounding the death of innocent victims hasn’t stopped me eating. Good. I love food.
On Thursday 7th February. I threw myself out the proverbial window for the wolves to feast on. Well, that’s a bit dramatic but you know what I mean.
I have decided to write a novel. Not your average chick-lit or vampire-soaked blood fest but a crime novel. One with hard working people based in my home town and driving me insane with the constant wittering in my ear ‘What about this? What about that?’ Never ending.
I normally write children’s books, surrounding myself with all things fluffy, endearing and massively virtuous. There is always a big bow at the end of them and they generally don’t take me long to write. My latest offering is currently sitting on various desks down south, waiting to be read by an editor/added to slush pile/used as coffee cup rest…who knows. So I wait. Which I’m not good at. Harassing my postie Scott on a daily basis, for a glimpse of a familiar SAE. Although that’s not normally a good sign, is it? A returning stamped addressed envelope usually means a polite ‘no and good luck’, in my experience anyway.
I finished reading my latest crime purchase, ‘The Impossible Dead’ by Ian Rankin and let the characters and story-line permeate my brain. I rummage around in the solid mass in my head and come up with an idea. An idea for my very own crime novel that I want to share with anyone really, I’m not fussy who you are as long as you read it and are truthful in your criticism of it afterwards. Is it utter nonsense? Did you guess the ending? Would you read it again?
I may be some time.
I write the first chapter and I am hooked. Line and sinker. Days spent scouring the internet for potential contacts and wondering if there is more to life than failed approaches to agents with my fantastic stories, are no more.
I dream about my novel all the time now, even when I’m brushing my teeth I’m thinking about the next chapter. I walk back from school drop-off and can’t remember getting home (kids – don’t try this at home). Worryingly exciting though, isn’t it?
A novel, so they say, is any book over 40,000 words. Usually between 50 to 100, 000 words. I have some way to go but I will get there and once I have completed my mammoth task, my life will return back to normal. I will no longer wander the streets looking for inspiration. I will have succeeded in doing something that I never thought possible.
I will have created.