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Well, if I was feeling smartarse, which I'm not because I've still got a nasty cough, I would answer "my blog, obviously, dur..." and then phone the police again, but because I am the least smartarse person you could ever wish to meet (that is literally true, my trousers are covered with mud, the zip is broken and there's one of those tiny splits in the front seam that you think you can ignore until you realise that when you walk the split gapes and everyone can see your pants), I shall tell you what I am writing...
Firstly...
As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away....
And, let me tell you, there's nothing harder (well, there is, but this is particularly grieving me at present), than trying to write about dark, closed rooms and the lights going out unexpectedly, when the sun is shining. Although my lights often go out unexpectedly, because if you turn the outside light on when it's raining it fuses the whole house.
And the other thing I'm writing? Is a Christmas novella, labouring under the title 'The Boys of Christmas'. And that's all I'm saying about that one.
Up the Stair has a haunted sleeping bag in it. And a main character who suffers from Glosso-Compulsive disorder (a bit like Tourettes). That ghost is not going to know what has hit it....
3 comments:
Reminds me of the festive party features we read in our favourite newspapers and magazines all through December. Most of them were written (and photographed) in the middle of July! Can't wait to read your next book, Jane.
You've had a rough old time with this lurgy so all credit to you for writing through it. I hope you feel well soon and shall very much look forward to the new books. Cx
Thank you, both. I suppose I'd better stop farting around on Facebook and actually write it now then. Sigh. Why is talking about writing always so much easier than actually doing it?
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