For thirty years I dreamed of a life as a professional writer. Here's how it is for me, after twenty-three years. There's plenty about work in progress, a whole lot more about the things that feed my creative process.
It’s been a lively day. Shortly before lunch there was a
knock at the door and there was the postman with a parcel containing ten copies
of my latest book (above). I mean, of course, the one I ghosted for ex-PC Pannett, A Likely Tale, Lad.
An hour later I was able to email to my current client the
completed, revised and edited version of Chasing
Black Gold. He wants to have a final read through before forwarding it to the
agent and the publisher.
I was rather touched when he emailed me this morning and confessed
that he was having withdrawal symptoms, having agreed last week that we had finished
tinkering and that it was now down to me to apply the final polish. So, he
asked, could he have a wee look at the first chapter, to which I had applied
the most alterations. ‘I need a fix,’ he said – and no sooner had I sent it than
he was asking whether I was up for drafting
a film proposal – and an outline for a potential American publisher. The guy
obviously has the bug.
With that out of the way I am now free to think about a raft
of other projects I have in mind, none more urgent, it seems, than my
preparation for the residency in Taos