I’m going to write a novel. Here. On Medium. Day by day. I’m going to write a few lines. Sometimes I’ll write a whole chapter. Who knows. But I’ll write something every day. Are you with me? I’m not original in this. I need an income, badly, now that I’m nearly 56 and have so far failed to secure a regular means of employment (but I do have to admit to having enjoyed some of the more outrageous ways I’ve earned a few bob when desperate enough to have to use my imagination more than most might). Dickens did it. So did Wilkie Collins, George Eliot, Elizabeth Gaskell, Thomas Hardy and Robert Louis Stevenson. I’m fairly sure in earlier centuries there were countless instances of authors being paid by the yard, as it were. These are scary times. And I’m running out of rope. So here goes. First installment in the morning. I’ll begin somewhere and see where I end up. I anticipate death in the early paragraphs and certainly within the first thousand words. After that, I’m laying myself open to all possibilities. Themes will no doubt reflect certain fields in which I’ve spent some attention. But the details of how these will present themselves are still obscure. I will simply turn up. I hope you do too.
Until tomorrow, here’s a lotus. Well, a water lily, actually. But still worthy of worship, don’t you think?
