I have spent the summer holidays cabbying kids around, clearing their mess, breaking up fights, packing suitcases, putting up tents and taking them down again. I've fended off flies on camp sites and suffered sleepless nights in sparse motels situated directly below flight paths or overlooking the M1.
Thank goodness I’ve got the house to myself. Now I can indulge in a little ‘me-time’. Well, actually, there’s no time for any of that nonsense, not when ‘Ghost Towns’ is far from being complete and in need of representation.
It shouldn’t take long to sort out the first draft. The hard work has been done. I’m not daunted by the fact that I am working on this project alone. I am the writer, after all. I know exactly what needs to be done. The unpublished author has to stay focused. We are used to a bit of confidence bashing. It happens all the time.
I'm well on the way to completing my second book, which is commendable, I suppose. I’ve dug the foundations and laid every sodding brick. The scaffolding has been removed, piece by piece. All I have to do is add a few final finishing touches, which isn't difficult. I’ll soon brighten the place up with a lick of paint, flooring and fabrics - nothing that I haven’t done before.
When I stand back to admire my creation, I’ll feel like an unkempt self-builder who has been ‘roughing it’ in an on-site caravan for the past year. However, he’ll be able to sell his work for twice as much as it cost to make the damn thing. The unpublished author has no way of judging their valuation until an offer comes their way.