Finally, after what feels like forever, I have clicked open a certain rather long Word document. My words look back at me, slightly dust-covered, slightly forlorn. ‘You’ve left us too long!’ they reproach me. ‘Did you see how many real books out there mention the 1940’s? By the time you come to push us out into the world you’ll have missed your market!’
“But it’s not just about the 1940’s!” I tell my words crossly. “It’s about…” I stop, as my words lean forward eagerly. ‘Tell us!’ they say. ‘Tell us here and now, and then maybe when you dither again for a year someone else will take your idea and flog it down the river!’
Their attention is unnerving, and I look over my shoulder. My bland room stares back at me. I turn back. “It’s about stuff,” I finish lamely. I’m not falling for that old chestnut.
And so, I blow off the dust and start again at the Prologue. The itch to rewrite and meddle again comes over me, and before I know it I have deconstructed and rebuilt the first paragraph. Oh when does this constant fiddle ever stop? I think I was happy with the prologue once. I think I am happier with it now. Gosh, is this the story that will never end though, one wonders? Okay, the prologue is now done. Again. At least, I am not touching it until after lunch. Sighs.