Thunder rolls in waves across the lake and rumbles from mountain to mountain up back. The house is built above a steep drop and the trees below bend and twist in the wind and rain, but nothing like last week’s gale that carried off the old chimney, smashing two skylights in its wake. Through the open doors and windows that look out over the valley and lake, I see swallows darting here and there, unperturbed by the storm. The air is cooler now, cleaner and more refreshing. A good moment to write.
My latest novel, In Search of Lost Girls, is ready. Only the ISBN is missing. I’ve paid for a new batch and it should arrive in a few days. Then I will be able to order the proofs. With the effort of preparing the sequel to Boy & Girl over, I find myself suddenly restless if not rudderless. Next on my agenda is the dystopian novel which I began a while ago with twelve chapters already written.
It’s always difficult to plunge back into a story, here all the more so because I want to make a number of changes before going on. My way of writing requires me to be immersed in the story such that I can follow the characters rather than dictating where they go and what they do. If the builders hadn’t done away with the fireplace when they put in the central heating some twenty years ago, I would willingly pull up an armchair by the log fire to read what I have already written. I’ll have to make do with the occasional flickering of lightning instead…
Very exciting for me as a reader. Yet, I can only imagine the transition from one story to the next could be rather daunting for an author. I wonder if there is a loss and grief process mixed with excitement for a new book. It can be for a reader.