Despite my oft-asserted claim that I’m nothing but an idler, I’m actually not much good at it.
In fact, I’m complete rubbish at it. Worse than rubbish. I’m just plain annoying.
So, the enforced ‘break’ that finishing one book entails leaves my mind empty of problems to mull over, depleted of characters to wake me in the middle of the night, lacking the excitement of scenes to envisage…
I become, in short, a complete pain. Especially to myself. (The dogs aren’t that keen either.)
And this further leaves me without any excuse to procrastinate over those things I must do: like choose and practise my readings for book signings and launches.
So, I’m rather thinking I should get writing again. If only to stop annoying the dogs in their afternoon napping.
Righto. Research, here I come.