I’m at a loose end. Pull it and I’ll start to unravel.
The revisions are done, the publishing Gods temporarily appeased after taking my second-born.
Henry Hoey Hobson has left home, whisked away on secret publisher’s business to an unknown location, a brutal boot camp where a merciless editor will whip his scrawny arse into shape.
He’ll come back eventually, bulging in a tough bag, splattered with copy editor squiggles. Sporting black marks on his once-spotless pages. Missing adverbs I didn’t even know that he had…
I’ll miss him, I do already; my head’s been in HHH-time for months. But it’s time to reset the clock for crime.
The post-deadline clean-up has cleared the decks to make way for the next one, my adult murder book, The Lonely Dead.
Under the detritus on my desk, I have finally located my dog-eared copy of the Crime Scene Investigation manual (along with an unbanked cheque, two overdue birthday cards, bills that I’ve paid, and filing I have binned).
Voices that have been simmering on the back burner for months are now rattling their lids.
It is time to make the shift. To find a new register. To drop it down a gear and begin the uphill climb. A new story mountain needs to be conquered.