Options Paralysis
The after-effects of the seafood milange seem to be dissipating now and I am turning my attention to the Next Big Project. I know I haven't really finished Sir Benfro Book Two (which was Book One), but putting it to one side suits me at the moment. All I've really got to do is go through it and decide where the chapters should fall: too short and it's like reading on acid; too long and each cliffhanger ending is wasted because you know it's going to take too long to get into the next chapter.
So I have to decide what to do.
I've been lurking around the blogs for a few months now, picking up ideas and finding out about things, and it seems that detective fiction is one of the few areas where there is a market for new writing. Despite my earlier disparaging comments about the genre (and I can't find the link now, so you'll have to take my word for it), I have dallied with it before.
Back in the way before, when I was still in short trousers and could really have done with one of Mr Stuart's DIY beard kits, I created a detective troubled by his ability to see the paranormal stuff that most sensible people tune out. He spent a happy eighty-four pages of comic script chasing an avenging ghost around Edinburgh. Later he turned up in As If By Magic, what was supposed to be the seminal piece of comic creation of the nineties. Then he had a bit part in a couple of novels I wrote whilst living in Roslin.
Before heading north for the great launch party, I had thought to resurrect this character and maybe pen a couple of short stories for him. An email conversation with Truffaut sowed the seeds of one idea and there are a few others that I have had kicking around in my head for awhile. But Mr Stuart thinks I shouldn't pussyfoot around; just get on with it and write a novel.
There's also the small matter of what to do about agent Phil's useful and valid criticism of the book I sent him. I should rewrite it, but it's SF and according to Jane Johnson (who should really know these things), there's no market for SF right now. So should I bother?
And Phil said he wanted to see more of my stuff (which may have been the cranachan talking, but I don't think so), but what do I send him? I really ought to be touting Sir Benfro about. At least book one. After all, I've put two years work into the project now. And who knows, it could be my breakthrough. But Head is a more complete novel, even if it does end with a fight scene in Roslyn Chapel (and no, I haven't read The DaVinci Code, but I'm told that it ends in a fight scene in Roslyn Chapel, which pisses me off, because I lived in Roslin for five years and I got there first, dammit!)
So I stare at my screen, blog a little, tidy the filing away, walk the dogs, send off some more copies of the plans in the vague hope that I might get some quotes for building work. But all the while the important decision eludes me.
It'll come soon enough. In a couple of weeks I'll find myself doing something and realise that I've overcome my options paralysis.
But for now I'm like a rabbit in the headlights.
So I have to decide what to do.
I've been lurking around the blogs for a few months now, picking up ideas and finding out about things, and it seems that detective fiction is one of the few areas where there is a market for new writing. Despite my earlier disparaging comments about the genre (and I can't find the link now, so you'll have to take my word for it), I have dallied with it before.
Back in the way before, when I was still in short trousers and could really have done with one of Mr Stuart's DIY beard kits, I created a detective troubled by his ability to see the paranormal stuff that most sensible people tune out. He spent a happy eighty-four pages of comic script chasing an avenging ghost around Edinburgh. Later he turned up in As If By Magic, what was supposed to be the seminal piece of comic creation of the nineties. Then he had a bit part in a couple of novels I wrote whilst living in Roslin.
Before heading north for the great launch party, I had thought to resurrect this character and maybe pen a couple of short stories for him. An email conversation with Truffaut sowed the seeds of one idea and there are a few others that I have had kicking around in my head for awhile. But Mr Stuart thinks I shouldn't pussyfoot around; just get on with it and write a novel.
There's also the small matter of what to do about agent Phil's useful and valid criticism of the book I sent him. I should rewrite it, but it's SF and according to Jane Johnson (who should really know these things), there's no market for SF right now. So should I bother?
And Phil said he wanted to see more of my stuff (which may have been the cranachan talking, but I don't think so), but what do I send him? I really ought to be touting Sir Benfro about. At least book one. After all, I've put two years work into the project now. And who knows, it could be my breakthrough. But Head is a more complete novel, even if it does end with a fight scene in Roslyn Chapel (and no, I haven't read The DaVinci Code, but I'm told that it ends in a fight scene in Roslyn Chapel, which pisses me off, because I lived in Roslin for five years and I got there first, dammit!)
So I stare at my screen, blog a little, tidy the filing away, walk the dogs, send off some more copies of the plans in the vague hope that I might get some quotes for building work. But all the while the important decision eludes me.
It'll come soon enough. In a couple of weeks I'll find myself doing something and realise that I've overcome my options paralysis.
But for now I'm like a rabbit in the headlights.
Comments