It’s a strange thing to write about writing without writing about what it is that I’m writing. It’s the same to talk about dreams, and living the dream, without actually saying what that dream is.
I’ve never been very good about talking about specific plans. Vague ones, about the utopia of working from home and the self-employed dream of being about to drop everything to have lunch with friends or to go shopping, well – sure, no problem. I can talk about those plans until the cows come home, while bemoaning the boringness and drearyness of the job which currently fills so much of my time. That’s easy.
But committing myself to a specific plan, sitting down and working out exactly how to make those vague dreams a reality? Well, that’s a smidgeon harder. And I’ve never been one for explaining my process or talking about what I’m up to. I much prefer to present things as fait accompli. I suppose if I don’t let anyone know, I can’t disappoint anyone. Except myself, when I continue to be doing a deadly dull and creatively stifling job. Ah, but one day -! One day, all this shall be over, and that dream, which I’m still just dreaming, shall be true.
The World of my Mind has been flitting recently. Having given me an Ah-Ha about my current novel and potential series for the world, my mind got me a quarter of the way through the re-write and then decided it would much rather cross-stitch and sketch patterns. When I’ve got my Christmas stitching out of the way (and yes, finally done the 24th mini-kit for the Advent calendar!), I shall begin to stitch samples of them and plot them on my shiny cross-stitch software. And then, maybe, I shall begin the process of talking to HMRC.
And maybe also, I shall find days when I can sit and write, especially now that those two chapters which were giving me such grief seem to have concluded themselves in a suitable fashion, at least for this draft.
To return to the opening statement about writing about writing without writing about one’s writing, I suppose one reason why I don’t like to talk about this work in particular, except in vague terms, is because it’s a fantasy, sort of, but it’s not an epic, or fantasy in the stereotypical sense (and here’s where fantasy-readers shout me down about the stereotype being unfair). What I mean is, it isn’t a quest, or full of fights and warfare, or particularly full of magic, or any of the other things normally associated with fantasy.
It’s about a relatively peaceful world and an Emperor chosen by the Gods who is, perhaps, not the greatest choice, because he is the youngest son and the baby of the family. And it’s about the prophesised end of this world. And it’s not a trilogy. It’s a stand-alone, although I have plans for other books for this world.
This, then, is the World of My Mind now, as I come to the end of my early twenties.