I’m like a donkey in the desert.
The donkey in the desert is a story, wherein a hungry and thirsty donkey, wandering through the desert (stay with me here) climbs a rise, and sees food. And water. And, by a strange quirk of fate, finds himself exactly in the middle of the food and water. Should he eat first, then drink? Or drink first, then eat? What a quandary. And so the donkey, not being able to decide whether he needs water or food more, stays stationary for hours. And dies.
Happy story, huh?
I’ve written a ton of stuff over the years. A. TON. Literally. Well, it would be a ton if it was written on hunks of stone, something like Labour election promises.
I’ve published my now one compendium (some would say collection) of small dark fiction entitled Bleak Midwinter Tales. You should totally check it out. Maybe even buy it.
So that’s positive. And I have over a million other words, spread across some 30-odd works-in-progress. That’s a lot. Not a ton, granted, but still a lot.
And therein lies the problem.
What is this mammoth body of work, I hear you ask (I hear voices a lot). I have horror. I have crime fiction. Rather a lot of crime fiction. I have apocalyptic thrillers. I have lots of those, too. And I have non-fiction travel stuff.
But the problem is, that all of this ‘stuff’ needs work. Editing, at least. Rewriting, some. Finishing, most. And (like the poor old donkey) I don’t know what I want to do first. And, as a result, I’m doing nothing, apart from moaning about politics.
As luck would have it, an extended break approaches. Some might call it a holiday, some might call it research, some might call it running away. But I shall be gone from my normal environs, to return some weeks later. And, by the time I return, I shall know what I am to do. I shall no longer be the donkey in the desert, but instead be the donkey laying down in the shade of a tree, having been eating and drinking to excess.
I’m looking for a tree even now. Just so I’m prepared, you understand.