I haven’t done a single word of editing today on my forthcoming novel—the one that’s supposed to be next in line.
Instead, I’ve been neck-deep in converting the novel after that from first person to third.

Clear as mud?
Yeah, I’m confused too.

You see, the third novel began life as a bit of an experiment. I wanted to explore the intimacy and immediacy of first-person storytelling. It was fun for a while—like trying on a new coat—but the longer I wore it, the more it started to itch.

Some stories want to be close-up. This one didn’t.

So now I’m elbow-deep in rewrites. "I did this" becomes "he did that". Internal monologue becomes distant implication. And somewhere in the margins, the whole thing is mutating into something sharper, more cinematic. Better? I think so. But it’s a strange feeling, working on what’s next-next, while next patiently waits in the wings, tapping its foot.

This is the creative process, isn’t it? Tangled. Nonlinear. A strange dance between projects, drafts, moods, and midges (I live in the Highlands, so there’s always at least one midge involved).

Anyway, just thought I’d share the state of play. One book being polished, another being reshaped, and me somewhere in the middle, trying to keep up.

Wish me luck. And maybe send coffee.