Seasons Don’t Fear The Reaper...

That’s probably because they’re nothing more than an attempt to quantify the natural cycle of planetary rotation about the sun, and therefore unconcerned by an anthropomorphic personification of human mortality. Unless, of course, it’s a typo and they mean ‘seasonings don’t fear the Reaper’, because salt and pepper are renowned for sneezing in the face of danger and breaking wind in the bathtub of death.

But I digress…

This week I are been mostly plotting, or maybe it’s planning. Nope, I’m pretty sure it’s plotting: that’s the one where I don’t do any actual work, just sit about thinking ‘wouldn’t it be cool if…’ The hard work of getting some sort of chronological order comes next. And as I know I’m going to ignore at least half of that once I actually start writing I’m not overly worried about doing it. It’ll help get things sorted out in the spider-infested attic that is my head anyway. And just to keep things interesting, I’ve been plotting ‘The Standalone’ and ‘The Fantasy Thing’ at the same time (on different pieces of paper), which is fun as they’re so bloody different.

On the less happy-la-la front I’m also getting started on the research for ‘The Standalone’, which, unlike ‘The Fantasy Thing’, I can’t just make up as I go along. Nope, this one I have to go speak to Peterhead Prison and the Parole Service and Social Services and the Hospital and the Police and, and, and… Lots and lots of people to talk to before I can actually get started properly on actually writing the book. But I did find out one interesting fact today (not to mention loads and loads of uninteresting ones): did you know that one in every thousand Scottish men, over the age of sixteen, is on the Sex Offender Register? Sounds pretty scary no? Well, not if you compare it to California where it’s one in every hundred and thirty. So next time you're at a crime writing convention over there, take a look around you at the hundreds and hundreds of people milling about, breathing the same air, sniffing your seat when you get up to go to the loo. One in every hundred and thirty...

Now that’s bloody scary!