To that end I've begun, or rather will begin later this afternoon, my new novel. It's been playing about what passes for my brain for months. And like the others that went before it, I have no idea what's going to happen other than lots of spookiness, blood, and perhaps torn body parts.
But what if the words won't flow? What if I've lost my touch? I've written seventeen, and published thirteen novels. What if my rancid imagination has finally rotted?
I'll only know when I've begun, and hope that as I begin pounding the keyboard (and with me it really is pounding, which Is why I buy my keyboards wholesale) that I'll know. I'm looking forward to it and also dreading the prospect.
Here's the first paragraph - maybe.
The man’s face was ancient as time. Deep crevasses lined his forehead and shrunken cheeks, barely interrupting their flow at his battered, misshapen nose. Yet his eyes were bright blue and crystal clear like those of a child.
This has nothing to do with the book It's just that Ellie always makes me smile. She's a ragged little temptress to the other three horses.