The Journey To A Published Novel

 All of those perfectly timed snippets of inspiration.  Those songs played only for you. Why don't you give me a soft, wet lickery kiss.  It started out blank with no imagination. 'Shattered Vanilla'  That's the title of my third novel.  I've only just sat down to begin writing it. I'm roughly speaking at just over 12,000 words. It's a first run and I love that feeling of filling space. It could be tripe or something I can mould. Either way, before it. There was nothing but blank space.  Now, that I've finished 'Flagpole'. I must just interrupt myself.....  It truly does frustrate me, just how much time I spent on that book.  Forward facing dog! Having a more focused mind for the second, which I released on September 11th.  'Autumn in Georgetown'.  I have no time to waste. I've had ideas for this one. As I said, it's called 'Shattered Vanilla'. It's sort of been rattling around for a while. Made some loose notes as to

  Saddlebag There was no blood, only silence. My wife wasn’t a fan of camping, less excited about going on the back of my motorbike. She begrudged me naming the machine Meryl, considered it cheating. She agreed to the road trip if I didn’t speed, a fair compromise to get her in a tent. We trundled for six hours, shook our helmet hair free and jumped up and down to bring life to our numb legs. We found a perfectly secluded spot on the moors, in the shadows of a derelict farmhouse. It was beautiful, the smell of mud and sheep shit. Nothing for miles, not even a phone signal. “Look at that.” She said, pointing at a granite rock formation. “It’s got a face.” I said, tracing my finger around the outline of a nose in the air. With her arms flapping and lips spitting to avoid the pesky gnats. I had the camera ready. She edged back. One minute she was there, pouting. Then nothing. I couldn’t hear her complaining. She slipped on lime green lichen, fell only 4 feet. It was enough;

  Skylight   Landlady stood stern with her crinkly arms crossed suspiciously, one impatient foot tap away from a raised eyebrow. She examined my swollen black eye, most likely thinking about what she was getting herself into. It was a nice one-bedroom flat, small but with enough space for me on my own. I could hide on the top floor with everything I needed. The kitchen is the same room as the living. Sit on the sofa and reach the sink. There’s a lingering baked fish smell in the air and a yellow tinged smoke alarm. Landlady noticed my distraction, quickly saying:   “It works.” I trust her, although I’d be happier if it wasn’t functional. I told her how I liked the natural light coming in through the skylight. That it made the loft conversion, added a real something. There was a rickety old wooden single bed with a stained mattress. Landlady did her best to hide the soiled patch with her leg. I didn’t care, I just wanted to be free, out of that flat I shared with Jess. It was

 Autumn in Georgetown With the fun I experienced completing the first book. I guess you could say I've got the bug. The writing bug that is. I suppose that's why I've been relatively quiet in documentating what I've been doing. I'm never convinced what I write is of any benefit to anyone. I really haven't got that big an ego. It's more for me to be able to look back and see progression and improvement.  "It's a process of continual growth."  With the self-publication of the first novel 'Flagpole'. It still annoys me just how long that took to complete. Best part of four years. It probably didn't help that I was pursuing the 'traditional' route to publication. Having to wait for responses, trying to be patient. For me, it distracted my focus from actually just writing. I'd become consumed with waiting, putting my own fate in the hands of strangers with an inbox. "I'm not going down like that!" It's more