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I haven't written fiction for over twelve months. It's not that I don't have stories. I have heaps of them, all fighting for space in my head and time at the keyboard. Mavrik the dragon demands time for his comic script, Mitch, Peib and Brentford are still sailing from space station to space station hunting bounties, a fleet of alien ships are demanding equal time with Mav, a pub full of bats are shouting at me, Greyshades is poking me with furry story ideas, and Remmy the wolf is keeping me up to date with his people's progress on their new world.
The stories play out in my head like serials during that 7.5 minutes between laying down and falling asleep. I don't remember my dreams. I must have them, but I imagine they're hiding in dark corners, afraid of the arguing stories and whispering to each other "You go out first!"
I've lost count of the times I opened Word, stared at the screen, then decided to play Railway Tycoon again. The original version for 286s, in 16 glorious colours and with proper signalling.
The stories play out in my head like serials during that 7.5 minutes between laying down and falling asleep. I don't remember my dreams. I must have them, but I imagine they're hiding in dark corners, afraid of the arguing stories and whispering to each other "You go out first!"
I've lost count of the times I opened Word, stared at the screen, then decided to play Railway Tycoon again. The original version for 286s, in 16 glorious colours and with proper signalling.
