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 The unpublished author has to stay focused.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 The unpublished author has no way of judging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.
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