Well, establishing the writing corner in the bedroom wasn’t quite as simple as I’d anticipated. (But then nothing ever is, is it? Except, strangely, breadmaking with our new machine. It just works away quietly and transforms flour, water, yeast and a pinch of this and that into bread. Amazing.)
But, generally, a couple of hours of book dusting, furniture removals and swearing over electrical equipment and old houses with an inadequate supply of sockets and I was good to go.
And, so far, the writing seems to be flowing better in the new space. I knew something had gone wrong about seven chapters ago and now I’ve discovered what and why and I’m in the process of rectifying things. I’m hoping that, once this glitch is sorted, I’ll be able to crack on with the last major section of the novel because I’d really like to have a first draft by Easter. That would mean that I might stand a fighting chance of having something to show Will, my editor, by about September.
Except I’m scared. Because he might not like it.
‘When’s the next one out?’ people have begun to ask.
‘When I’ve finished it and when Macmillan have decided whether they want to publish it’, I say, trying to be all breezily professional and up-beat.
They look astonished. ‘But once you’ve got your first one published, that’s it, isn’t it? Sorted? You can write what you like after that?’
I wander off to weep quietly somewhere, unobserved.