So I never wrote the book.
Because it turned into a play instead. I'm not quite sure why that happened. It started out as a comic novel - a serious comedy mind, you know me - with lots of ideas in it that were best examined through dialogue. But after a bit I realised there was an awful lot of speech and somehow it would work better as a play. Not that I know anything about playwriting.
After that it went well. I really enjoyed writing it - cramming in more and more ideas, jokes, paradoxes and, finally, tragedy. The funny thing is that when it became a play I could see the characters much more clearly as if they were in front of me on the stage. And as a result it was easy to get into their heads and the words simply flowed out of their mouths. All I had to do was write them down.
After that, God, that was the most fun I've ever had, down in London on my own writing my two act play. Kind of thing I've dreamt of doing since I was a pimply teenager.
Just for a while I could kid myself I was a real writer because that's exactly how I felt.
Once I'd finished the first draft I came back up to Scotland and, after a bit, I sat in my room (right here in fact) and worked on the re-writes. Then last week I launched my baby off into the choppy waters where the theatrical agents swim, like sharks in a pool.
And now I'm waiting for the rejections. Just like I did as a teenager, all those years ago after my first book. Nice symmetry though, you have to admit. Then and now, living in hope.
You'd think I'd know better, at my age.