Ken Preston's Blog, page 10

If a Picture Tells a Thousand Words…

…then you are about to read over nine thousand words in this post.

Some days I like to go exploring.

Some days I even like to drag Thing One and Thing Two with me.

Yesterday we went exploring on our local canal, and I took my camera.

It’s amazing some days the sights you can discover simply by stepping outside of your front door and going for a walk.

The world is a beautiful place.

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This photo was taken just off the canal. We had to scramble over a wall and then down through some woodland and over an overflow for the canal water. Somebody has been gathering and stacking wood here.

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This is a derelict house dating back to the 19th centure. It is Riverside House and there are plans to renovate it and transform it into a community hub.

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A view of the grounds of Riverside House.

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These derelict warehouses are set for demolition in the next few weeks.

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They have been part of the scenery at Stourbridge Canal for decades.

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What will be put in their place?

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I know, it’s just graffiti, but I felt the need to capture it before it disappears.

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Another view of a derelict warehouse.

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Oh yes, it was cold out there.

But Thing One and Thing Two didn’t moan once.

Not once.

And neither did they ask when they could go home.

About a gazillion times.

No, they didn’t do that.

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Should You Start at the Beginning, or Somewhere Else?

When reading a book it’s always best to start reading at the beginning and on to the end. Any other way of reading, say jumping randomly from chapter to chapter, or starting at the end and working backwards, well, it’s not going to work, is it?

I doubt anyone has tried reading a novel this way.

(Yes, I know, there are some very strange people out there who like to read the ending of a book before starting it, but even they then go back to the beginning and read the book through from start to finish.)

But what about when it comes to writing a novel?

Is it best to start at the beginning and write through to the end?

Some authors do it this way. Lee Child, for example, sits down at his computer every September and starts writing a new book. Much like the reader who begins reading, he hasn’t got much idea about what will happen. He types the first words, the first sentences, and keeps on going until he has finished the book several months later. And then he sends it to his publisher and takes the rest of the year off until September rolls around again and he starts a new book.

Lee Child is the only author I know of who writes like this.

JK Rowling famously started at the end of her seven book Harry Potter series, writing out the finish to the final book before she had written a word of the first one.

I know of other authors who write by jumping from chapter to chapter and scene to scene until they have finished and then they piece it all together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Richard S Prather explains his writing method like this:

I send considerable time on plot development, typing roughly 100,000 or more words of scene fragments, gimmicks, “what if?” possibilities, alternative actions or solutions, until the overall story line satisfies me. I boil all of this down to a couple of pages, then from these prepare a detailed chapter-by-chapter synopsis, using a separate page (or more) for each of, say, twenty chapters, and expanding in those pages upon characters, motivations, scenes, action, whenever such expansion seems a natural development. When the synopsis is done, I start the first draft of the book and bang away as speedily as possible until the end.

That method of working sounds like utter torture to me.

But then we are all different.

I often start with a loose concept of what I want to write. I might write a very brief outline with an idea of how the novel will finish, and write out a couple of character sketches. And then I’m off. I write from the beginning and carry on to the finish. Except I also revise as I go along. So instead of this linear journey from start to end I am constantly backtracking and then running forward again, often with several detours along the way.

It’s exhausting, but it’s the only way I can do it.

Let’s compare my method of writing to Lee Child’s in graphic form.

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Looking at it like that, Child’s method is much more efficient than mine.

But, as I said, we are all different. And I know that if I emulated Child’s way of writing my books would suffer in terms of quality and narrative richness.

If you’re going to read a work of fiction there really is only one way to do it.

But if you’re going to write one, well, there are countless ways of writing it.

It’s up to you which one you choose.

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What are you going to do with this opportunity?

We are living in exciting times.

We are connected with each other in ways we could never have imagined, even just twenty years ago. Our ability as creators to interact with our audience and the way in which the two can shape that creation is continually changing and evolving at a rapid pace.

Wait, hang on a minute, at least one person predicted this future. Watch this video of David Bowie attempting to explain to a thoroughly bemused Jeremy Paxman back in 1999 how the internet was going to impact the arts.

Well, I should just finish right here, shouldn’t I? What more needs to be said?

Except, whenever I watch this video I still smile at Paxman’s utter befuddlement during this part of his interview. I expect he thought they might just be talking about music. Oh no, Bowie never just talked about music.

Anyway, here we are, living in that time that Bowie predicted nineteen years ago.

So, what are you going to do with it?

Yes, you.

You there, living in the most exciting time in this planet’s history. You have at your fingertips the ability to reach out to the biggest audience imaginable and, even more importantly, not just entertain that audience, or speechify in front of it, but you can interact and actually have a conversation with the individuals who comprise your audience.

Bowie’s not the only one who saw the future. Amanda Palmer was using email to keep in touch with her fans way before email marketing became the thing to do. And, to be fair, Palmer didn’t use her email as a marketing tool, she used it to have a conversation.

So, you there. Yes, I’m back to talking to you.

What are you going to do with this opportunity?

Watch cat videos?

Glue yourself to your smartphone to keep up with the latest viral YouTube videos?

Gorge yourself on computer games?

Lose hours and hours of your life to the popularity competition that is Facebook?

The internet is your master right now. You need to take back control.

Think what you can do with this opportunity to connect.

You could write a novel or two or more and publish them.
You could write and perform songs and upload them.
You could blog.
You could start a movement.
You could make a film and upload it.
You could gather people together to meet in real life and do something remarkable.
You could teach.
You could inspire.

The possibilities are pretty much endless. It’s up to you what you do.

Don’t sit there passively consuming.

Create.

Connect.

Live.

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Imposter Syndrome

I suffer with this pretty much all the time.

It’s crazy.

I sometimes think it might be easier for my mental health to just quit pretending to be an author and a creative writing teacher and the other gazillion hats I seem to wear these days and just retreat back to my cave (otherwise known as my cellar) and watch TV on Netflix all day.

Become a passive consumer rather than a creator.

But that would be the wrong decision.

Let’s backtrack a moment. On Wednesday night I read out my story The Man Who Murdered Himself at our newly relocated Birmingham open mic event. We had been based at Waterstones, but in a move of corporate short sightedness it was decided that events like open mics don’t sell books and so we were out. The management and the staff of the Birmingham Waterstones shop are fantastic by the way, and have always been very supportive of these events. I don’t know the whole story but it seems like this decision was out of their hands.

Anyway, back to Tilt cafe/bar and our new open mic night. I co host this event with Rick Sanders, poet, funny guy and all round good egg. We mostly take a back seat and let as many people perform as want to, but on this evening we had a few slots empty towards the end of the event so I put myself down to read. I’m pretty relaxed about this now and can step up in front of an audience and do a reading without much in the way of nerves. But even so, as I got about halfway through my story, I couldn’t help but notice my feelings of Imposter Syndrome stirring as the beast whispered into my ear ‘This story is pretty bloody weak to be honest, isn’t it? I mean, come on, take a look at everybody’s faces, they look bored as all hell.’

But, as I always do, I ploughed on and read to the finish.

After the event I was approached by Jonathon Watkiss, a punk poet/singer/record producer/filmmaker who told me he loved the story and would love to turn it into a short film.

Take that, Impostor Syndrome!

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You’d think it would help, wouldn’t you? That kind of validation?

Hell no.

I’m booked to speak to a group of Year 7 children at Kinver High School this week. No big deal. I run a monthly creative writing workshop for young people in the Year 7 to 12 group every month. I also run a creative writing workshop for children in the Year 5 to Year 6 group every week.

But still my arch nemesis Imposter Syndrome is sneaking up on me, asking me what possible right do I have to claim to be enough of an expert in creative writing that I can go into a school and run a workshop?

Seriously?

Just get in touch and tell them the truth! Confess!

Because the truth of the matter is, I’m just pretending. I’m not really an author. Not a ‘proper’ one at least. And all those creative writing workshops I run? Come on, anyone could run those.

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Time to retreat to my cave.

Except, no. I can’t do that.

I refuse to do that.

Because, at the end of the day, aren’t we all pretending to some extent?

And if pretending to be an author means spending hours and hours sat in front of a computer writing and editing and rewriting and deleting the rubbish stuff and writing better stuff until you feel it can’t be any better (except you always know it could be better but you have to stop and publish at some point) and on and on day after day and week after week, well, when you stop to think about it, isn’t that what ‘real’ authors do?

And if pretending to be a creative writing workshop leader means spending time preparing for each workshop, working on a structured plan for the session specific to the group I will be meeting, gathering resources, being prepared to stand up in front of that group and deliver the lesson whilst being willing to adapt to meet the needs of the students, well, when you stop to think about it, isn’t that what ‘real’ creative writing workshop leaders do?

Maybe I’m an imposter and maybe I’m not.

Maybe I’m doing this for real, or maybe I’m just pretending.

I’ve decided it doesn’t matter.

Because some days, when the fear and the doubt is nibbling away at the edges of your conscious mind, when the doubts are creeping in and that voice whispers in your ear, ‘Are you sure you can do this?’ I find that it’s just best to step up and do it anyway. Pretend to be what you actually are.

Acting ‘as if you can’ is a powerful tool for success.

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I’m Stuck at 36,000

I always arrive at this point sooner or later. To be honest I’ve made it further than I expected this time, but it still happened.

I’m stuck.

36,000 words into my latest novel and my imagination has dried up, my motivation has ground to a halt and my mojo has upped and left the house for pastures new.

And, as always, I’m convinced that I will never finish this novel, that it sucks so bad it could win prizes for suckery. Except I would never enter it because, well you know, it’s too bad.

The dialogue is stilted, the pace is too slow (except for when it’s too fast), the plot is hackneyed, the characters are threadbare and, seriously, why the hell did I ever think I could do this in the first place?

Maybe I should just quit now, while I am still ahead. Or at least not too far behind.

Because I am behind. Waaayyy behind. Like, my word count is pathetically low and I’m not hitting any of my targets.

If I was a salesman I would be out on my ear by now.

Yes, I should quit.

Just quit this stupid writing lark altogether.

Look at the benefits.

No longer would I need to get up every morning at stupid o’clock.

No more sitting in front of the computer staring at the blank screen for hours on end, before finally switching the computer off with a sigh (me not the computer) and going to bed depressed at the waste of another writing session.

No more anguishing over the placement of a comma or the length of a paragraph.

No more wondering if I should be writing up extensive and forensically detailed character profiles instead of making them up on the hoof.

I could spend more time with family.

More time watching TV.

I could go back to work full-time and earn a decent wage. (Yay!)

I could go to the cinema more often. And the pub.

I could take up a new hobby like, um, crocheting.

Or I could start going to the gym again. Finally get around to building that beach body I have been after for the last thirty-five years.

But I’m stuck at 36,000 words, and if I quit now I will always be stuck at 36,000 words.

Sigh.

Actually, when I think about it I’ve been here before. I usually get through it. I usually find a way of fighting through past the stuck part and on to the end.

Usually.

Even when I think about the times where I did quit, where, if this was pre the computer revolution, I would have picked up my manuscript and thrown the pile of papers into the wind (because obviously I would have been sat outside whilst tapping away on my typewriter, probably on top of a windswept cliff) and the wind would have caught my sheets of typed paper and scattered them to the four corners of the earth.

Too much?

Yeah, I thought so.

Sorry.

So, even when I think of the times I did quit, and there have been plenty of those, the novel might have died, the resolution remaining unwritten, but I never quit fully.

I always started another book.

Because quitting is for, er, quitters.

Right, that’s it, I’ve convinced myself. Back to it.

I’ve been here before.

And I’ll be here again no doubt. It’s nothing new, this being stuck business.

But the main reason I can’t stop now?

This is Joe Coffin Season Four I am writing.

And a lot of people want to know what happens next.

Including me.

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Things I Think About at Two in the Morning

I’m going to die. Maybe not right now, although that is entirely possible, but I am most definitely going to die. I’m going to die. I can’t believe it. I don’t want to die. But it’s going to happen. Oh shit. One day I will be dead. I’m going to die.

What was that noise? Is that somebody downstairs? Is there somebody in the house? Somebody broke in. They will be wearing a mask, almost certainly, and carrying a gun or a knife. They might come upstairs. Shit. I need a weapon. What can I use as a weapon? What’s on my bedside table? Alarm clock? No good. Electric toothbrush? No, I can’t see that working either. Notebook and pen? I could write a quick description of the intruder before he kills me for the police to find, and they could use it to track him down and arrest him. But the intruder would see what I’m doing and take the description with him. Damn. Forget the bedside table, what else is in the bedroom? The duvet! I could smother him with it. Maybe. Oh shit, I’m going to die. (See above.)

Wait. What? Oh no, I think I’m lying in bed next to my mother. How the hell did that happen? This is awful. Is she asleep? Yes, thank goodness. Okay, I need to be really, realllly quiet. If I can just slide out of bed without waking her, it’ll be all right. I mean, no, it won’t be all right, not really, because I will always know that I was lying in bed next to my mother, and that thought will haunt me for the rest of my life. Wait a minute, she’s stirring. Oh shit. shitshitshitshitshitshit. Am I wearing anything? Boxers. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. I’m lying in bed next to my mother and I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and she is about to wake up. I can’t believe this. How did this happen? Wait. What?

I’m having a heart attack! I’M HAVING A HEART ATTA— Wait. What?
Why am I standing at the top of the stairs?
I need the toilet AGAIN?
Oh no, please, please tell me I wasn’t having THAT dream again.

Is that the baby crying? Something woke me up. I think it was the baby crying. I can’t hear anything now though. Maybe if I lie here very still and listen really hard, then hopefully I won’t hear anything and I can go back to sleep. Listens really hard. Nope, nothing. That’s all right then. Starts drifting off to sleep. Is that the baby crying?

I so wish I hadn’t had that last pint.
What an amazing idea for a novel. I mean, that is just so bloody brilliant. That will be a bestseller, definitely. And a Man Booker winner, for sure. Maybe I should write the idea down, just in case I’ve forgotten it when I wake up. But that means I will have to turn the light on. And find a notebook. And a pen. But I’m tired. I don’t need to write it down. An idea that good? I will remember it still in the morning. Absolutely.
I’m going to die.

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My Life is a Mess

Or maybe it’s just my desk that is a mess.

Sometimes I think that’s the same thing. If I could just tidy up my desk then maybe I could sort out my life too.

Honestly, every day I intend to tidy it up. The desk, not my life. But there’s always something else that needs doing first.

Like writing.

I am a writer, after all, so the writing bit is actually kind of important. It’s not like I sit down at my desk and think, you know what, I don’t fancy tidying my desk today so I think I will waste some time writing instead.

If I was squirrelling my way down virtual rabbit holes on Facebook and Twitter, yes that would be a waste of time and I would be better off tidying my desk.

But I’m a writer. I HAVE to write!

And really, does my messy desk make it harder to write? On those rare occasions when I actually get around to tidying it up, am I then struck with inspiration and do the words start pouring from my fingertips as soon as I sit down to write?

The answer to both of those questions is a big, fat, resounding, NO.

So why, when I look at the devastation that is a pathetic excuse for my workspace, do I feel the need to sweep everything to the floor?

What’s this thing with obsessing over a lack of clutter?

I suppose it’s not the clutter that’s the problem.

It’s the lack of organisation.

See that pile of receipts in the corner, about ready to spill onto the floor? Yep, they’re the records for my accounts.

That open book, Characters and Viewpoint? (Underneath it is the Routledge Creative Writing Coursebook if you’re interested.) I left them there from when I was preparing to lead two creative writing workshops last Saturday.

Coffee cups? Of course. What writer doesn’t have empty coffee mugs littering her desk? In fact I’m sort of feeling rather inadequate at the moment only having two.

The human skull?

Don’t ask.

I genuinely do not have an answer.

Still I can always justify my messy desk by pointing you to this quote:

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”

Einstein said that.

Or was it Laurence J Peter?

Nobody knows, really.

Anyway, that’s it for me today.

I’m off to tidy my desk.

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This is What a Broken Arm Looks Like

You can see it immediately, can’t you? The clear break in those two bones, the radius and the ulna. Even without an X-ray you would be able to tell that there was something very wrong with that arm. That it was probably broken and needed immediate medical treatment.

This is what depression looks like.

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Or at least this is what depression looks like to me.

An X-ray of my inner emotional and mental state, if you will.

The problem is, depression is much harder to diagnose and treat than a broken arm. Neither do you get people visiting with treats and gifts and cards and flowers, people laughing and joking and commiserating and sympathising. And there’s no cast for friends to write stupid messages on and silly drawings, or just to sign their names

You’ve probably heard this story before. You may even have seen the photograph before. I’m not going to go through it all again, because I’ve told this story a lot. About how I slowly and without realising what was happening sank into a debilitating depression. A period of my life where I hated myself so very much that all I could think about was . . . well, you know where I’m going with that, don’t you?

That photograph? I put that together during my recovery period. It accurately represented how I felt at the worst points of my illness. Naked, in every meaning of that word, alone, despairing, and being taunted, mocked and laughed at by myself.

Even in its raw state, when I had first put the different elements together, I felt like crying when I looked at it.

It was just so bloody accurate.

This is what depression looks like.

Self-hating.

Self-loathing.

Low self-esteem? How about NO self-esteem?

We are getting better at talking about mental health.

But we’re not there yet.

We still shy away from anyone who might be afflicted with depression in its many forms.

It’s not catching, you know.

You can’t pick up a dose of depression from forgetting to wash your hands.

And why do depressed people never receive any ‘Get Well Soon!’ cards?

Depression is also one of the few illnesses I know of where many of the afflicted do their very best to hide the symptoms. As though we are living in a zombie apocalypse and they have just been bitten by a zombie but need to hide the bite because if they reveal it they know their friends will despatch them with a quick shot to the head.

That’s been known to be used by people as a self-prescribed cure for depression actually.

But it’s kind of permanent and self-defeating.

I’m much better now, fully engaged and positive, connecting with those around me and doing my best to create on a daily basis.

Life is very good.

I still take 150mg of Sertraline a day though. Started off at 50mg. Quickly went up to 100mg and recently moved on to 150mg.

I’m hoping I stay there.

I don’t want to go up to 200mg.

The truth of the matter is, there is a lot more to beating depression than taking magic pills.

And, for me in particular but I would hazard a guess that this would work for most people, the main strategy that works for me is creativity.

And physical exercise outside.

And being present in the moment.

And connecting with others.

I know. That’s four strategies.

Turns out I couldn’t just pick the one.

I made another one of these photographs to illustrate how I felt at the time.

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Sometimes I think about making more.

I’m not depressed anymore, but the weird thing is I can still remember exactly what it feels like. It’s not like breaking an arm or trapping your thumb in the door. The mind is conditioned to forget that kind of pain.

But the pain of depression?

Oh yes, I can still remember that.

And I know that old Black Dog is still hanging around outside, waiting for a chance to get back inside so he can sit faithfully by my side once more.

Some times I even think I hear him scratching at the door.

For the moment at least, that door is strong and firm and locked shut.

But yeah, I still remember how it feels.

So, if you know somebody who is suffering with some form of mental ill health, please do this for me:

Don’t ignore them because you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s just as important to sit with a person and say nothing as it is to try and dispense words of advice or comfort. In fact, it’s kind of more important. Because, in your presence and your silence you’re saying, I might not know what to do to help you. I might be helpless in the face of your utter misery. But I love you. And I’m here for you.

By admitting that you haven’t got a clue what to do, you’re sort of making yourself vulnerable too.

That’s a powerful kind of love.

 

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Review My Book and Make Me Feel Good

Reviews are funny things.

As a creator of products (a fancy way of saying I write books) I would like to have thousands of five star reviews on Amazon and anywhere else that my books are available. And I would love all those reviews of my books to contain words and phrases like ‘edge of your seat exciting’, ‘Loved , loved, loved this amazing book’, ‘spectacular and a MUST read!’ and on and on.

Over the years I must have consumed a metric tonne of marketing advice for authors and the importance of reviews comes up again and again.

And there are a number of reasons why they are important.

A positive review gives the author a warm, self-satisfied glow inside and a big grin on the outside.

Positive reviews help validate an author.

Positive reviews give social proof, and can sway a buyer’s decision.

All right, so to be honest the only one of those reasons that is important in any way, shape or form is number three. But the first two don’t hurt.

Recently I’ve been starting to wonder how important number three is as well. Reviews are all well and good, but if there is no one available to read the reviews then they are not much use are they?

Sort of like the argument that says, if a tree falls in a forest but there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

What do you mean those two statements have nothing to do with each other?

Let me rephrase it.

If a review has nobody to read it, does it carry any validity? Is it even still a review? Do the words themselves actually carry any meaning? Talking about meaning, what’s the point of it all?

All right, I got distracted there.

Where was I?

Yes, reviews.

I got to thinking about reviews because occasionally I am contacted by other authors (and let’s be clear, I don’t know these authors they just contact me out of the blue and assume a special relationship) and asked for an exchange of book reviews. As in, I will review your book if you review mine.

I even had someone ask for an exchange of 5 star reviews!

I’m assuming I didn’t even need to read the other author’s book before reviewing it.

Just as long as I gave it five stars.

I always say no.

Always.

To indulge in this practice of swapping reviews would be dishonest, and show a lack of respect towards anyone who purchased my book and read it. Because I have total respect for anyone who takes a chance on my work and reads it. Not only am I asking for their money but I am asking for an investment of their time and emotional energy. How often have you read a book and realised at the finish that the hours you gave to it were wasted hours? That you will never have that time back and you wish that you had spent that time elsewhere, on something more valuable.

So to try and con someone into buying my books through fake reviews?

Absolutely not.

The very first novel I ever finished writing is called The End of Time.

Well, I think it was called that. You see, I’ve lost it. It’s probably somewhere in the house, but we’re in what we British types like to call a bit of a pickle at the moment, because the cellar (where I write) is out of action and so its contents are strewn around the house.

But you won’t find that novel anywhere on Amazon. I never published it and I never intend to.

Why?

Because it is not good enough, that’s why.

The second novel I finished writing is called Caught in a Cruel Net.

Terrible title, not very good book.

I do think about revisiting it one day and reworking the entire story.

But as it stands it is not publishable.

Neither of those two stories in their present states are worth the emotional and mental investment, the time and financial investment, that they will require from the reader.

I’m not in the business of authorship to scam people, to rob them of their money.

I’m here to tell stories.

The best stories I can.

And if you, the reader, see potential value in that story then we will enter into a transaction with one another where you will give me money in exchange for the story and I will entertain you, give you pause to ponder, make you laugh, chew your fingernails down to the quick and help you identify with the characters so much that you will cry for them, be afraid for them, and feel sadness or happiness.

I want us to go on a journey together to explore these worlds that exist just on the other side of that threadbare curtain separating reality from fantasy.

That is why I write books.

Not for reviews.

(Although they are nice and I do enjoy getting them.)

So, why don’t you take my hand and I will pull back the curtain, and let’s step through to the other side together.

Because isn’t that the point?

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So here it is . . .

. . . No, not Merry Christmas but the final blog post from me for 2017.

Last week I gave you a very quick overview of my year, and so tonight, on New Year’s Eve, I am going to look forward to the year ahead.

I’m not much of New Year’s Resolution kind of guy. I prefer to review my goals and adjust and measure as I go along, (although not nearly enough, which is something I will be tackling this year).

So, what are my priorities for 2018?

The first one, the big one, is finishing writing Joe Coffin Season Four. I stumbled on Season Three and wound up having to rewrite a huge chunk of it. I don’t regret the rewrite, even though it pushed the publication date back by about six months, because the novel was much better for it. But this time I would like to miss out the bit where I have to delete huge chunks of prose and write new stuff.

I’d rather get it right the first time.

We’ll see. This writing game is a confusing business at the best of times.

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Next up is to knuckle down and finish a qualification I started last year, one which will enable me to expand my teaching role. I love the creative writing teaching, and it is definitely something I would like to do more of.

Back to writing again, and there is another book I need to finish and publish in 2018. Planet of the Dinosaurs Book Two: The Journey North. You can see a mock-up of the cover here, although the book might not actually be called The Journey North, and the cover might look a little different.

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But, like I said, it’s a mock-up.

One project that is definitely happening and early in the year too, and I can safely say this because it’s pretty much in the can already (as those movie folk like to say) is the Limited Edition Joe Coffin Box Set. The first three seasons in hardback with extra features, including deleted chapters and my handwritten notes.

More on that in the next couple of weeks.

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What else? Well, there will be another After School Creative Writing Club, my regular once a month Saturday afternoon Spark Young Writers’ sessions and the adult creative writing workshops. I also plan on getting more speaking gigs and holding a couple of very specific, once only workshops.

Back with the writing, I’m not sure how many more My Weekly Pocket Novels I have left in me to write, but I’m pretty sure I will do at least one more.

And, I almost forgot, I’ve got a very exciting Top Secret Project lined up for 2018.

More on that next year.

All of this means I have an incredibly busy but very exciting year lined up.

And that’s how I like it.

Have a fantastic New Year’s Eve and my hope for you as we move forward into that freshly scrubbed, brand spanking new 2018 is simply that you will be happy.

Because I think genuine happiness covers all bases really.

 

By the way, I am finishing this year with this, my nineteenth blog post in a row.

Back in August I made a commitment to publish a blog post every Sunday without fail.

And nineteen weeks later I haven’t missed once.

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