It’s feast or famine in this writing game. My agent reminded me of that last week, and it’s so true.
I can’t say I’m exactly feasting at the moment, but there do seem to be one or two more pots on the stove. There’s some interest in a proposal I put together recently for a series of historical novels, so I’m immersing myself in the research again and making sure the sample chapters are working as hard as they can. To make time for this I’ve had to turn the dragon novel down to a low simmer and refrain from doing what I hope is the final draft of a new short story called The Voyage of the Plastic Beagle.
Wait a moment, I hear you say. Historical novels? But don’t you do fantasy? Well yes, but by asking the question you’re opening a whole can of worms about genre and pigeonholing and adaptability. Actually, you’re goading me into a full-blown rant that, sadly, I don’t have time for right now. Remind me about it another day. I’ll be happy to tell you what I think. In the meantime, I need to read up on 17th century race-built galleons.