It's been five months since I completed Uncharacteristic Behavior. It came as a rather a shock to me when I did the calculation. I honestly thought I would take a few weeks off and get straight into the next book, but it didn't happen. All I have are the opening few pages, a fairly strong outline, a clearly defined protagonist, but, critically, at least for me, no ending, and I don't even know where I'll set the story. Without these, it's impossible for me to be drawn deep into the work. I try to picture my heroine somewhere. Where? I peer throught the mists of my inadequate (at present) imagination to what? -- Canada? Wales (again)? Until I have the geography right, I have nothing to provide the backdrop. They say great actors don't find their characters until they are in costume. For me, with my writing, it's always about place.
It's an odd feeling. Perhaps you'll recognize it. I spend a lot of time thinking about the idea of the book as if I were trying to recapture a memory which doesn't quite reveal itself. It will come, I know. I just don't know when.
No news from my agent, and I'm sad about this now. She seems recovered and bright enough on her blog, but I'm too timid to ask again what's happening to The Place of Dreams. Fancy that. Me.Timid. In everything else in my life I am certainly not that. Yet agents have this effect on me. So much for my little Boadicea avatar that I pop in here from time to time. What a sham that is. Of course, were I published, I'd be brandishing my figurative spear in quite a confrontational manner. I would, really.
So hang in there, if you're also experiencing the same kind of down time. We're such a resilient, patient lot, we writers. Who knows what August will bring?
In the meantime, there's so much real-life (if it were fiction, the script would be laughable) political drama out there. Once again, I've become a TV news junkie. And I never miss Jon Stewart. Got to keep it in perspective.
Oh, and I didn't get any magic dust so far, but tomorrow's another day.
