I fear I have been a little lazy with my podcast this time, and have spent little if any effort editing it. While I love to speak, while I love to record all manner of things, the technicalities of editing I find tedious in the extreme. I hope therefore that this rendering of my eccentric work will suffice for those who have made the journey thus far.
To write fiction, for the first time in my entire life, has been a revelation. I write of course for myself – should any other be selfless enough to read what I have written, well so much the better.
It had become very apparent to me that I was once again in danger of writing polemic. And polemic corrodes my soul – especially when I have written it myself. Too often during these past three years of writing, I have vented my sometimes bitter and always despairing views on the state of the world.
If I can not but view this world through black lenses, then why not create a world of my own? A better one, perchance. And live in it.
And so that is what I have done. In a little bubble, in a small cottage near to the sea, in a county still just rural enough, I have dreamt a dream and climbed inside it. Somebody said that writing a novel is like driving at night with only your headlights to show you the way. The view can be narrow, restricted. And at no time can you see very far ahead.
How like life itself then. Who can see around the corners, who knows what tomorrow or the next day will bring.
That is the attitude I am taking in my fiction. I am living it and seeking out adventure day by day. I have an idea of where I want to go, I know what I would like to see along the way. I know what I would like my characters to achieve and shall live their lives vicariously, as my own.
In a sense, this is one of the biggest steps in my life. Foolish though that may sound, to give real expression to one’s inmost thoughts and hopes is what writing fiction seems to require.
I will be interested to see what happens next.