I love her dearly but I think my Mother is passing on her own aspirations. She once suggested that I should write a novel. Me! A novel!!
Well, if I’m honest, I have considered the idea and I do have a few plot outlines lying around. All of which contain, as it turns out, various aspects and plot twists that just happen to be very very similar to some films directed by one Alfred Hitchcock (OK, OK, they are identical).
Every now and then I get an idea, scribble a few pages of opening prose, add in a few notes about character development, plot movement and the like, then forget all about it. When, usually several months later, I stumble across the idea again, I re-read it, consume it, swill it around and then ponder to myself: “who the feck are you kidding?”.
It is said that everyone has at least one novel in them. I totally agree. It’s just that mine is crap and certainly nothing that is strikingly new, unusual, or different which, as everyone knows, is what maketh a novel.
In saying that, I do have a new opening line for my never to published magnum opus. As construed from a mass of silly emails today:
“Hordes of feathered gibbons, hated the world over, oh how they fantasised about the taste of the tiny orangutan tongues.”
Whaddya think? I think it has a certain ethereal quality, with nice deep dark undertones.
UPDATE: Nanowrimo anyone?