Star Trekkin’ away from Jeff


When does life actually end? When we stop breathing and our heart stops beating, when our brain dies, or when we’re forgotten, or no longer loved? An hour spent randomly clicking around Wikipedia is never time wasted. It’s a well-known almost-fact that all articles on Wikipedia eventually lead back to philosophy. In fact the theory itself is further recursive with its own Wiki entry.

I’m finding that self-curated tours around the internet, armed with some common sense and a curious mind, can be quite fulfilling. It’s a world where you can go virtually anywhere, with little regard for safety, yourself, or others. It’s a universe of ideas, and full of parallels with the land of the living (undead). Bidding my imaginary room mate (Jeff) a pleasant evening, I headed out earlier onto the internet and into what’s on my parallel mind.


According to the theory of fictional realism, everything which has been written or imagined already exists. At the quantum level, every reality which was a possibility but which didn’t become reality (to the observer), became real and actual in a parallel universe. It’s an idea which makes quantum computers able to open portals to new dimensions and invite demons into our world, but for now, I was just concerned with the virtual universe and microcosm of human existence which is the World Wide Web.

(One of those little QI-type facts you pick up and never forget: The World Wide Web was invented by Sir Tim Berners-Lee, who gave it away for free (imagine how different the world would be if it had been capitalised from the start. No, don’t). The story (perhaps apocryphal) goes that the prefix before any URL would be an abbreviation of “The Internet Machine,” which is of course TIM. Berners-Lee – a modest man – resisted this and instead suggested WWW for World Wide Web, which we still use today. But it’s a contradiction: when spoken “WWW” has three times as many syllables as the words it seeks to abbreviate. I don’t know if it’s all true or not, but it does no-one any harm to assume it is.)

Among all the fake news and the hacking of democracy, the internet still serves as a crucible for all human knowledge. There are holes, dents and bits missing from the universal encyclopedia, but that’s further reflection of the collective hands of the one race who made it.

Unable to go out much in my physical world, I thought I’d broaden my virtual horizons. The first thing I happened upon could easily be my transport in that virtual universe, as it was never built and always remained a dream.

Dornier Do X future imagining

Based on the Dornier Do X sea plane, this was a larger future imagining. I’m no physicist but the wings would have to extend way off the sides of my monitor and have six or eight propeller engines each. Still, it’s a romantic idea. I assumed such a splendidly redundant thing was at least plausible, and it only takes imagination to jump on board a big yellow bird: Sesame Street meets Transformers.

Our leviathan landed on a lake, where I found another place which never fulfilled its intended purpose: Fort Montgomery on Lake Champlain was built after the American War of Independence, on the border with British Canada to protect against British invasion. It was discovered by the British when they found it had been built on their side of the border. It was subsequently abandoned and became known as “Fort Blunder,” which kind of sums up the whole British colonialism and latter American imperialism we witness today: Incompetence, written all over the rest of mankind’s history (a bit like war).


Landing close to water back on the real world, I saw a sea lion in a world created by humans. I’d normally dismiss anything which exploits an animal for human entertainment, but this guy seems to turn the whole thing on its head (he perhaps has with connections with Lake Champlain):

Assuming the keepers’ calls aren’t connected to any past aversion technique, this is a perfect demonstration of assembled intelligence levels. In Cyrus Song, some of the zoo animals are grateful they’re there, because they get food and shelter, and they can take the piss out of humans.

The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy noted that Earth was “Mostly harmless.” Perhaps an addendum: “A bit like America: Nice, but full of humans.”

Fuck you

Humans are capable of beautiful dreams and horrible nightmares. All we need to do is keep talking, and listening. Everything that’s happened, and much which didn’t, remains in parallel universes created when someone had the idea. Life ends when we stop thinking.

Random thought: Fairground ghost train + pinball table = roller coaster.


In make-up with Max Headroom


There are three people in all of us (and I’m one of them): The person we think we are; the one others see; and the third, inner (or shadow) self. I’m in touch with that third person, just as I can write from the perspective of others. I can read thoughts, then write them down for people to think about. I can be omnipresent in my virtual worlds, directing the thoughts of those there with me, and that’s where I’m finding myself lately, in an empty room. It’s where I left my ego.

Max Headroom in make-upJohn Humphrys at Frieze

A great philosopher never wrote this:

Imagine you’re in an empty room, with no visible means of exit: How do you escape?

Whether or not anyone had posited that mind experiment before, it was one I’ve posed to myself many times. In any case, I’d first ponder whether the subject might not want to escape. Then I’d propose one of two things: Stop imagining, or use your imagination.

I may not got out much (social anxiety), but I will if someone needs me and they can’t get to me. It’s far easier (mentally) not to go out, and have friends like me, who’ll make an effort when I need someone. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those.

I thought I did. Even as recently as my birthday, I was prepared to put my personal plans to one side to help a friend who said they needed a shoulder and an ear. Even if they didn’t need me on the day, I’d let it be known that I’d appreciate the company (to one who said they’d drop everything for a friend in need), but apparently it doesn’t work that way. I seem to be back living on one-way streets again, but that’s fine.

I’m used to being kerbside, just watching the world go by or hitching a ride, and my birthday told me where I stood: Far from alone in the real world life, but apart from most and not a part of many. I have to choose my own adventure, like the fighting fantasy books I used to read before I had anyone to play Dungeons and Dragons with (back in my teens, but no longer). All the geeks grew up and got jobs. I’m the only one who lost all their hit points and longed to be a teenage nerd again, but when memories are forgotten, they become stories.

Everyone else respected my annual tradition of wanting to be alone, on the one day of the year I can allocate myself to gather my thoughts. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder, and the mind grows wiser, as I realised I’m better alone than surrounded by carrion feeders anyway. It seems some I thought were friends (in the mutual, two-way paradigm) are only that for their own convenience, when I have something they want, or when it suits them. A plague of rain and floods on fair weather friends, as no-one needs those, least of all when mental health issues make that one vulnerable (and causes one to refer to oneself as ‘one’).

In the virtual world, a quick scan of the (admittedly, quite a few) messages on Facebook told me more than a night out with all of them would (I wouldn’t have time to get round them all, it’d cost too much to drink with each, and I’d have to travel). There were many notable absences, which stung a bit, but that perhaps told me something too: they’re less likely to be there in the real world when I need them than I thought.

Truth is, people are frightened of what they (and I) don’t understand: my broken brain. Always the elephant in the room, laying eggs for people to walk over, I don’t have the luxury of avoiding me, because I live there. I can’t run away to escape my mind, and no-one else visits it, so I face the mirror.

Ever the cracked actor, this blog has always been both the mask I hide behind and some of what goes on behind it. I’m far more comfortable being someone else, but that’s often the person I want to be, in whom I feel comfortable, but who others can find overwhelming in real life. But in the virtual world, I can be that inner persona.

As a writer who’s been compared to others I admire in the various genres (Lovecraft, Kafka, King and Poe in horror; Douglas Adams for sci-fi; Paul Auster in my more complex writing; many children’s authors; and the surrealists, Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas for Cyrus Song), I’ve decided now’s as good a time as any for reinvention and a change of clothes.

My recent depressive episode coincided with the latest attack of writer’s block. Having worn so many hats in the past, I wasn’t sure which one to put back on. But then that third person in me suggested another way: don’t conform to any. Do something different, unconventional and surprising. Mix things up a bit and come up with the thoughts no-one has (like the two foundation ideas in Cyrus Song). There are a finite number of plots, but infinite ways to write them, each creating a new universe and all talking to me.

Be original: Your individuality is your originality. This could be a metamorphosis, a changing of the chameleon’s colours, or just another crack I’ve found in the actor’s mind, but I’ll see where it takes me and my typewriter as we make up and wake up.

Much of the writing I did in those recent troubled times, and which is in the notebooks I carried around and sat in front of the TV with, is all over the place, like I was. In amongst it all though, there are stories, and some like none I’ve written before. There are elephants in there: floating elephant heads, which walk on their trunks (eight each, like a spider), sucking up eggs and denying the birth of another life, preventing sentience, self-determinism and coping mechanisms.

There’s a plastic population: people who are part plastic (every human); there’s the hacking of human DNA; a quantum computer, becoming one with its creator; nano-drones, right under our noses, observing and interacting with us while we curse a sneeze; the tale of an escaped Schrödinger’s cat, back to tell tales of nine lives spent in parallel universes; and the world’s greatest irony, in a lake beneath the Kalahari desert, where the water is fossilised.

I don’t know what else might emerge. As a writer, I’m going to experiment, play, throw away, and I’m keen to find out. I’m stuck in a room, but I have an imagination. I’ll write more in that third person and occupy the shadow self. Making love with my ego. Like a leper messiah.

Cyrus Song is available now.

Making flans for Simon


I’d originally planned to spend the weekend making plans for Nigel, but when I realised I had no close friends called Nigel, my plans had to change. Instead I called on Simon Fry, my character, persona, and alter ego from Cyrus Song. We were having dinner and he’d asked me to bring dessert, so I’d made flans.

HHGG Deep ThoughtA poster on Simon Fry’s wall: a design sketch from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie.

I’d decided to speak to Simon because he’s the person most likely to understand me. Even though I created him, he’s a completely separate person, and any decent writer will tell you that’s a perfectly plausible statement to make.

Before Cyrus Song, I already had Simon Fry’s life story written down. It fills a notebook, which I still have, along with the one containing Hannah Jones. A very small percentage of what’s in those journals is in the novel, but the characters’ speech and mannerisms write more than the words on the page. It’s knowing my characters so well which allows me to bring them to life (convincingly, I’m told). Every writer puts a piece of themselves into their stories and characters, I’m perhaps slightly above and beyond with some of mine.

I have a deep understanding of the human condition (the critics and reviewers say), and I have many personalities in my head, so each of my characters is a mix of those, and of other people I know. I know how Simon talks, because I know how he thinks, but only as far as a poker player would another. Even though I created him, I can’t read his mind. He has so much of his own story in that other notebook, that he’s a strong enough character to not need me (it applies to Hannah too).

It’s handy to be able to do things like this as a writer, and as a socially anxious one, I really do make (as in, create) friends. It sounds tragic perhaps, but it’s actually very useful.

Doctor Hannah Jones is based less on me, but with elements of others I know well in the real world, within her (I’ve tested it out on some of those other people). With all of those people in there, my understanding of human thinking and inter-personal psychology, I can hold a perfectly convincing conversation with Hannah, just as I can Simon. I don’t know if this is proof of my writing skills or confirmation of multiple personality disorder.

It’s the best way I have of getting to know myself. Some would say it’s talking to myself, but it’s more like questioning different parts of myself, so that the whole can get along. We may disagree, but I favour debate over conflict, especially when it’s in my head. This is my coping mechanism, but it’s more my mental health management strategy.

I said after I’d written the book, how much I missed those people, because they’d become so real when they were around me all the time as I wrote them…

I put the flans in Simon’s fridge, and I noticed he had a can of squirty cream in the door. Then we both sat on the sofa, wondering who should speak first.

“I’m not going to be your counsellor am I?” It was Simon. “Because I’ve counselled myself on many things before and wondered why I didn’t get a second opinion.”

“To be honest,” I replied, “I’m not entirely sure how this is all going to go.”

“What did you expect?” Simon wondered. “Because things rarely live up to expectation.” I’d caught him on a pessimistic day (he has those).

“I don’t have any expectations,” I said, “just an interest.”

“Very wise,” Simon nodded. I thought he’d say that.

“What about you?” I asked.

“The same,” he replied, “but if we both sit here just looking interesting, it’s not going to get us very far. So can I ask you a question?”

“It’s not like I can stop you.”

“True, in part. But anyway, why me?”

“I needed someone to talk to, to make it easier for me to talk.”

“So that I can ask you the questions you want to be asked, so that you have an excuse to answer.” Simon is very perceptive.

“You’re right,” I replied (he knew he was), “because you’re the one I spent longest in, and where I found myself.”

“So you’re haunting me?”

“No more than I hope I’m on anyone else’s minds. But in you, I found ways for you to deal with things, which helped myself and others to understand things around themselves.”

“In Cyrus Song?”

“In that book, where a lot of other people might find themselves in those characters.”

“And you have the advantage that you can come round here and talk to one of them.”

“I consider it a privilege.” And I did. Because these words are not entirely my own.

“Well, I can tell you,” Simon said, “that you created a whole world for me to move around in freely, as you can see for yourself. Beyond this world, you’ve created others which you’re equally free to occupy, but you’re always welcome here.” I’m not sure he could really say anything else (I’d be a bit fucked, like humanity at the start of the book).

“Perhaps we could invite Hannah along?” I wondered.

“Yes, I wondered how long it’d take you to get round to that. Let’s see how we go,” which is how I myself usually tell people to chill out. “And let’s do that soon,” which is something I rarely say, for fear of intrusion into someone else’s life.

This was turning into a story in itself. A man who was after my own heart, had overcome a lot in his life, and especially in the two week period covered in our book. Although it’s a surreal and twisting science fiction yarn, and with a nod to Douglas Adams, it’s very much a book from my own heart, and with a dark inner soul of its own. It’s a story of two people, who with a lot of help, find out much they didn’t know about themselves and the universe around them. I’ll be talking to Simon again soon.

As a writer I have multiple universes I can visit, but as a socially anxious person, I felt more at home in Simon’s flat. Even the flans seemed like some sort of unconscious collaboration, an ever-present threat of potential comedy while we spoke, should either of us be inclined. But we’re far too grown up and introverted for that sort of thing.

Cyrus Song is available now. The prequel stories of Simon and Hannah (and Captain Mamba) are told in The Unfinished Literary Agency.

Dining on darkened stools


Pulp Pollution


As a one-time music writer, I’m crapping it, which is what every horror writer wants their readers to do, as they feed them to obesity in a crowded field. When I write fiction, there are parts of me in every story or character I create, but I’ve rarely lived the actual events in the stories. Now I’m seated alone in Green Inferno, a joint which prides itself on being carnivorous. My first observation is that if you’re in the story yourself, it’s not so easy to make it up as you go along.

The place is cavernous and filled with greenery, so that the experience is one of dining in a plastic south American forest, alone. As I look around, it’s hard to make out many other diners for the dense foliage, which eases my anxiety. Anyone walking through the bushes around me could be a customer, a lost tribe member, or one of the dishes. I hear running water but I can’t see a toilet. I turn my attention to the menu, which is the other point of this place.

It’s a meat restaurant, but with its focus on food provenance. All their dishes are locally sourced, and every cut of meat is traceable to an individual. Reared by organic local farmers, each animal was once a friend, and so every dish comes with a story, like Peter Davidson at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, describing his lifestyle and how that’s improved his finer cuts.

Mine is a shallow hunger, so I browse the appetisers. Among them, I’m intrigued by the pygmy cutlets. The beast once burdened by these isn’t described by species (I assume pork, from a pig), but as a character:

He (we’re told that much) was unwell for much of his short life (not terribly appetising so far). Bullied by his siblings and shunned by his elders, he’d been adopted by other animals. They stop short of actually naming the individuals here, but I gather this little chap had a bit of an identity crisis (I know how he felt).

Another of these pygmy things sounded a bit of an arse: His partner and children had fled his abusive patriarchy, then he’d been ejected by his drift (the collective noun for swine) and become a nomad (and no mates). For years he wandered with lonely guilt, until he died of a broken heart (impaled). In some respects, I could relate to him too.

The stories of the menu certainly make me question whether I should be eating what was once a sentient, self-determining being like me. As a horror writer, I’ve sometimes reflected on the act of consuming dead flesh, questioning if it might be both the most and least respectful way of disposing of a body. On the one hand, it’s everything which was in that living body being taken on by another (so a bit like holy communion). Conversely, it’s power over the body of the lost soul as it’s consumed (not unlike holy communion then).

I decided on a cut from each, whoever they were. While they remained nameless, they’d be just like any other meat on my plate. As food, once the organism has ceased to function, it becomes organic. It’s consumed, drained of its nutrients for the nourishment of the host, then what’s left is excreted as waste: Life as pulp fiction, picked up on airport news stands, consumed in the air, and cast into the bin on different shores, like so much human waste. Perhaps there are beach combers there, and some stories live again, but I was growing distracted in the plastic green inferno.

My stomach was growing cramped, like my surroundings; vegetation everywhere, but not a leaf to eat. And yet, the dishes I’d ordered were once living beings with stories. I owed them enough respect to eat them while they were still warm.

I’m not sure if it was a server or a customer who ran through the foliage behind me. I couldn’t tell if the sound of flowing water was from a distant stream or the glass now being poured beside me, as my food arrived. I couldn’t wait.

I dined alone as always, with only myself for company, pondering publication of this review. The writer who shit himself.

“Door open or closed?” It made no difference, as I passed an effigy of me. It appeared to smile as I flushed it away to some distant beach.

© Steve Laker, 2018

A flash film on a small screen


Desk lampAngelica Jang


As I sat up writing late one night, smoking a joint, thinking of drinking gin and tonic, I found myself in the very story I was writing: a screenplay, in which an army of moths take control of a valuable energy source…

Ever since I started communing with the animals using the Babel fish, I’d been busy as a writer, with different groups asking me to tell their stories. They were perfectly capable of telling their own through universal translation devices, now ubiquitous among humans, but shirked by animals who feel they should control their thoughts.

While humans had spent millennia on countless ventures in self-improvement, they’d eventually concluded that the one thing humanity all suffered from was loneliness. And so universal translation was invented: the Tower of Babel which some of their religions forbade.

Meanwhile the animals had spent their entire evolution taking care of their basic needs: food, warmth and shelter. With the essentials squared away, they spent millions of years evolving to be able to communicate telepathically. It was genius on a planetary scale.

So now some of the animals have hired me as a freelance. I have no more idea why, than a dog might know how to drive a car if he caught up with it. All I knew before I took this first commission, is that the moths plan to take control of human power sources.

I let one of the more persistent visitors in through the window, and switched on the Babel fish, so that I could learn more of this plan. At first, the moth told me about an existential crisis he was going through. It didn’t take long to realise where the line of enquiry was going, so I pointed out that I wasn’t a psychiatrist. He only commented that my light had been on, in a way which suggested that we already knew the ending.

But he did point out that my light had indeed been on. By now my window had been open for a minute, and his squadron of moth men were already flying towards me. I took a swig of my gin and tonic, and one shouted “Gordon’s alive!”

Their plan is to take over other laptops: The lights of writers, shining from the windows in the night.

© Steve Laker, 2018

Ghostwriting with Botnik


In between sci-fi, family history, and other people’s real lives all getting mixed up with my own, I sometimes go off and do something random, to see what happens. So I read an article in The Guardian, of how a predictive AI wrote ‘Harry Potter and the Portrait of What Looked Like a Large Pile of Ash’. Then I wondered what would happen if I let it loose on Cyrus Song. It might even help me write what I’m really thinking…


As one reviewer said of my (critically-acclaimed) sci-fi RomCom, “Anything is possible in a quantum multiverse, and Steve Laker explains how.” In times when many human jobs are threatened with redundancy by machines, and with the lines of sentience blurred, I wanted to see if a computer could replace me as a writer.

The Guardian article begins, After being fed all seven Potter tales, a predictive keyboard has produced a tale that veers from almost genuine to gloriously bonkers…” And Robotnik (the AI) came up with some interesting prose:

He saw Harry and immediately began to eat Hermione’s family. Ron’s Ron shirt was just as bad as Ron himself.

If you two can’t clump happily, I’m going to get aggressive,” confessed the reasonable Hermione.

The whole process is explained fully in the article, and it was the same one I used for this exercise: I fed the entire manuscript of Cyrus Song into Robotnik’s predictive text keyboard, initially guiding it in its penmanship. As far as the AI is concerned, it’s picking up from the end of the book. It’s effectively beginning a sequel, as it has all the information it needs from the first novel. I just had to choose a few of the opening words from lists of alternatives, before letting it find its own way…

The babel fish program works for some purpose…

Really? That first sentence was constructed by Robotnik alone, with me just confirming the first words on the lists of possibles. So, yes it does work for a purpose. And?

…I was to sit awkwardly with many people…

Just a normal day then, okay…

…because it thinks I could talk with them.

It seemed to be on to something, so then I just let it run…

…I thought that was what the whole thing was I’d written about. Hannah was talking German, so I twiddled the knobs on the Babel fish to tell her. But that’s not how it works she reminded me, in German.

I pondered aloud whether the doctor might be outside with animals. She was checking. Then she said the oddest thing: “Och.” Was Hannah unwell? She seemed contemplative. Then she said, “Can I be Frank about things?” She usually was, I’d heard. “Mr fry,” Why was she calling me that? “I mean, Simon, we might find answers elsewhere.” Where were we going?

“Hannah,” I said, “I speak as others probably think, and I’d say anything to the animals if they could translate it more. I think we need another mind, and I think we should use the quantum computer in your lab. If it’s been listening in.”

As soon as possible, the AI seems to have introduced the computer to the story, like it’s bringing in a mate to help…

“I wondered if you might think that. I really wanted to say something and then we just don’t. We scanned around the planet with the patients and they indicate something which could change our thinking about the really small things. As a translator, I thought you people are always different to mammals. They seem to have nothing but good intentions and pose no threat whatsoever. Marlene said something…

Marlene makes a brief appearance in the book, but I don’t know why she’s cropped up here. In fact, I’m not sure why anyone’s doing what they are.

…I do have other patients to see what that might be and did she know that today was Saturday?”

Now Marlene’s a vet too, but she seems as lost as everyone else. Safe to conclude then, that Botnik read the book, didn’t fully get it, or got it and is making its own attempt even more surreal. But it lacks human heart (mine, at least). Perhaps AI is sentient, but in a way we don’t yet understand. Maybe it was on something, rather than onto.

Of Cyrus Song itself, a reviewer wrote,“…If this all sounds a bit weird, that is, because it is. But it all somehow works and knits together in the manner of surrealist writers like Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas, with a substantial nod, of course, to Douglas Adams, who can make the impossibly strange seem mundane and ordinary. Steve Laker pulls this extraordinary juggling act off admirably well, producing a very good, thought-provoking, page-turning, and also at times darkly comic read.”

Tempting though it may be to let the bot write its own story, I’d hope people might notice I’m missing. Perhaps the machine does have something in mind for later in the book, which would explain the weirdness, but it’s probably some sort of AI in-joke, which humans wouldn’t get. So I’ll keep writing, while the lines between plausible surrealism and outright insanity remain reasonably well-defined, on this typewriter I’m using now.

Cyrus Song is nothing like the brief acid trip above, instead giving a perfectly plausible answer to the question of life, the universe and everything. It’s available now.

Life beside the lake (by bus)


I’ve found myself somewhere I never realised I wanted to be, in a position where I could take some time off if I wanted to, but I don’t know why I’d want to do that. So rare is my current circumstance that I don’t really have a name for it: perhaps a forelog, that being the opposite of a backlog. I’ve got new stories lined up for publication over the coming weeks, allowing me to concentrate instead on a matter of the heart.

Lake fishing

As an aside, my family name is one derived from a profession: a Laker was one who fished on lakes, where a Fisher fished rivers. The matter of heart, is a book about some of the Lakers.

Meanwhile, there are two short stories in the sausage machine. ‘So Long and Thanks for all the Animals’ is a nod to Douglas Adams only in title. The story begins with strange carvings found in nature, and a device discovered by two school friends while metal-detecting in a woods. What if our planet was trying to give us a message, and the first thing we noticed was the self-harm marks it had made on itself?

‘The Long Now Clock’ is about a caretaker at the Long Now Foundation, which houses a clock designed to keep the time for 10,000 years. The story revolves around a conversation she has with her android assistant, about a message picked up by SETI. The two of them speculate on what might come, concluding in part that any visiting race with the technology to come to Earth would most likely be one so far evolved that they’ve transcended war. The story is mainly dialogue, as a robot and a human compare what it’s like to be each of two co-existing species, and of how each envies the other for different reasons.

Like my most recent short story, ‘Diary of a Teen in the Woods‘, “a metaphysical tale of the spiritual, subconscious world”, the next two have an element of surrealism, while retaining a plausible grip on science. They’ll be in Schlock web zine, where I’m pretty much a staff writer, and one recently compared with surrealist writers like Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas for Cyrus Song, and whose stories arealways underlined by a salient sense (and deep understanding of) the human condition”, according to one review of my anthology.

It suits me not having to punt work around, and Schlock’s editor has supported me as a writer from the start. Now that I’m better established, mine is a name which readers are used to seeing on the cover, and with over 50 stories accepted by the editor, they must like me. I know that I have favourite writers in the various periodicals I read, and I’d feel it almost a personal affront if one of them left their publications. Plus, I’m lazy, but only like all those other writers who don’t leave what’s effectively a house publisher, and who feel a loyalty to their readers.

All of which means I have a few weeks’ clear water, during which I’ll maintain my forelog but concentrate mainly on my next book. The book has become a well-known secret in some small circles. It’s the format which has caused me trouble: How to tell the story; how to write the book. But after much internal dialogue, I’ve come up with what I think is the best way to write the book as the gift it is, using the gift I’m expressing gratitude for.

It’s a book about two people, who passed through some noteworthy estates when they worked for the owners. They’re two people who may have gone otherwise unnoticed, if their son hadn’t become a writer. After all I put my parents (and many others) through when I was drunk, and now that our relationships are closer than ever, writing a book about them seemed a nice gift, made by the hands they gave me, and which I subsequently found out were for writing. So the book will be a collection of stories and anecdotes, mainly about the things my parents did and the historical places of interest they worked, and how that influenced me in later life, eventually to write the book, but it’s not about me. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be plotting it, writing the basic structure and beginning the narrative. It’s still pencilled in for publication in March next year, and I’ll have a second anthology out not long after, now with the working title ‘The Importance of Discovery’.

When writing has become my life, I don’t see any reason to take time off. This period of being ahead of oneself is like a busman’s holiday, and one taken beside a lake.