Because I'm never, ever likely to do anything else with the 70,000 words of that first draft novel I splurged out during November, I then got bored enough to start working up several rough cover ideas for that thing I'm not doing.
Still, it's sometimes kind of fun to mess around with things when there's no actual significance to them whatsoever, don't you think?
No...?
Just me then.
Well, why not, eh...?
A philosophical curmudgeon watching his half century disappear rapidly in the rear-view mirror of the second-hand rust-bucket of life, whilst living constantly on the brink of Derbyshire with a very tolerant Beloved.
The day job involves colouring in pictures to earn an honest crust, and the evenings, weekends, and early mornings are often spent writing plays nobody performs, poetry (or something resembling it) that nobody cares all that much about, and blog posts that seep out unnoticed into the uncaring universe. Dabbling in this return long-form prose in the form of writing a novel is yet another experiment to find out whether I have the stamina or mental capacity to create something more substantial.
As has been pointed out on several occasions, I'm always finding new ways to find another complete waste of time to fritter a few more precious heartbeats away.
Old enough to know better, stupid enough to care about it, daft enough to keep on doing it anyway...
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