Living in My Head

A long time ago, so long it’s BC (Before Children), I decided to write a novel. I took a year, battled the muse, created so much stuff that it can be hard to store and that’s just the paper-trail, not the electronic dump! And then I put it aside, got a job and went on with life. That was that.

The problem is, that though I can stuff all the chapters in a cupboard to gather dust, I can’t remove them from my head. My characters haunt me. Every now and then, they will pop out at an inopportune moment (is there an opportune moment I wonder?) and insist that I need to get on with it – they’re not getting any younger. . .
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