Once again I am back at my mum’s surrounded by boxes full of books, or full of cats, so it seems. I spent all weekend pushing and pulling them (the boxes, not the cats) around like some weird Krypton Factor game – and succeeded in shoving them all into the spare room and shutting the door on them. Be gone boxes!
Little boxes in the spare room
Little boxes held with sticky-tacky
Parcel tape, sticking to everything
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a brown one and a brown one
And a brown one and a bro-wwn one
And they're all made out of sticky-tacky
Parcel tape just the same.
Being back at home has its plus sides (mum’s lovely, hard to get her to take money for rent, save lots), and its down sides (being the oldest teenager in town, not so convenient for work, being one of those sad adult children that return to the nest type statistics). But it’s only for a short pause, and a bit of breathing space, and then onwards and upwards! I am ever optimistic...
... which is more than I can say about the title of the novel. I finally set up my computer again (no Internet, but one shall suffer through) and looked at the title, and was suddenly struck by the age-old question - 'is it any good?' Agh - the indecision... can I see it on the shelves? (Yes). Does it sum up the novel? (Yes). Is it too girlie? (Sigh, maybe). Is it 'too' clever? (No). Is it clever at all? (A little, ish.) Will it make you choose it from a shelf? (I don't know!) Will it make an agent like it? (I don't know!) Will it make a publisher go for it? (Agh!)
So I spent all night worrying at it and trying to come up with another title, but everything I was thinking of didn't quite match the story. So maybe I had a night of unnecessary panic. It's staying as is now, unless the tube ride home reveals something magical (an 'on-time' train the other end would be a start).
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