It would appear from the number of posts which have not been appearing here that I am wallowing in a slough of idleness. Which does sound remarkably pleasant. I do think sloths may have the right idea.
However, this is not so.
I have been working.
And finding as I write…that’s three main characters (one quite literally in the North Sea, one in the northeast of Scotland and in possession of firearms, and one in Bohemia–modern day Czechoslovakia–on his way to Prague) all busily pursuing their own agenda…that I haven’t done nearly enough research.
Because there have been so many new works of exemplary erudition come out in the last six months, explorations of life on the ground–life on the streets of Paris during the weeks and months before Napoleon’s denouement–or what it was to be a boy in the Royal Navy circa 1812, and all sorts about Russia’s opposition to Napoleon’s plans for world domination. (Is is possible that at last someone–namely the Russians–is taking on this great PR lie that Napoleon was a good thing?)
And I need to read them all. At least by yesterday.
Yet, when I’m not writing and getting the three protagnists’ words of wit and wisdom down onto the page, they sulk. (More specifically, they drink to excess, fantasise incessantly about getting laid, or kick tin cans against the inside of my brain, respectively.)
This is the grown-up version of a child’s secret friend phenomenon. And let me assure you, it’s twice as inexplicable and thrice as much fun. And like the child’s phenomenon too, it’s incurable.
Though it does, I’m assured, produce great reads. Let’s hope so.