I had a vague idea recently for a novel with a particular setting.
One day I just started writing as a picture came into my head, and three months later I’ve got a plot, a sub-plot, monstrous themes and a gallery of rogues. The wronged parties take their revenge, and it comes at a hideous price. And the world I imagined has changed since I began – more eldritch, more Gothic, less historically accurate.
Words come at me like filaments from an Edison lamp, a couple of hundred at a time, and all I do is write them down. I’m nowhere near writing the story yet, just tasting the stew, adding spice and herbs and cackling over the pot like one of MacBeth’s witches. All in all, there’s hardly a thousand words written down, and the rest are just pictures in my head, disjointed, churning, flickering like a magic lantern show on fast-forward.
Look out for a linked short story too. This one began as a series of images, not linked, embellished with practical experience. I might see if I can get it into a proper magazine first, instead of just flinging up an ebook.
One thing’s for certain – there’s only one story, and it’s mega, and it isn’t linked to any of my other series (planned or completed).
Now if I could only just finish writing what I’m working on now, and the novel I’ve promised by the end of the year, and the novel I’ve got scheduled for the first half of next year, and the series of six novellas, and…