All right, then. Here we are again.

It’s been so long since I blogged that I had to sit, for a little while, staring hard at the screen. I wasn’t looking for inspiration; I was looking for the ‘new post’ button.

It’s funny how quickly your brain un-accustomises itself to things that once seemed normal and natural.

Writing this seems okay, though. But lonely. A dribble of visitors have passed this way in the six months or so since my last post. If I’m honest, though, I’d forgotten I even had a blog. Or what it was for. I’m still not sure. I think (I think) this is going to be a writing diary, for the summer months (when I’ve hung up my gown and mortar board), while I’m tackling the start of the novel (again) that was masquerading for quite a few months as The Finished Article, before Rogue Traders off the telly came round and said, hold on a sec, you’ve plumbed that chapter in completely wrong, and the sub-plot needs rewiring.

There isn’t a thing I can do about it except: start again.

I don’t (thank Christ) mean start again start again. What I mean is, the book learned to write itself as it went along. It got better. (Which is better than getting worse, as I’m sure you’ll agree.) The book was like Terminator 2 as opposed to 1, and when it got to the end of itself it had to send me back in time to… make itself pregnant, or something along those lines. Ah, you know what I mean. It’s not quite good enough, is what I mean. I can’t send it out like that.

So it’s back to the notebooks, where I found this little doodle…

.

And this message I wrote to myself (pardon my French)…

And this is the front door of my book (although in the actual real world it’s a door at Felbrigg Hall).

And these are the circular stairs I’m eternally walking up (or down) till the day (please God let it be soon) that this book becomes good enough.

And the problem is that I don’t hate the bits I’ve got to get rid of. It’s harder to say goodbye when the words have been carefully ordered, or happen to have fallen in a lucky way. I quite like a lot of it. Having written well once, I can write well again. I think, I hope. But the plot isn’t right. There are characters who need to die. Someone’s feet need reattaching (really).

I can’t promise much excitement here, on this blog, for the next few weeks, but you might find succour if you’re stuck, a bit, with your own book (in particular with a book that you once thought was finished).

For now, then, it’s back to the grindstone. Back to square… seven, or possibly eight. (Square six, on a bad day.)

Never mind, eh.