Now, and I’m fully aware that this is terribly self-indulgent, so I’ll apologise for that early on: sorry. Here’s the thing. Since Book One came out, I’ve had this idea in my head that someone is missing it.
I don’t pretend to know who it is, or whether they really do want my book, but, whoever it is, I’m sure I know them, and I know I’ll kick myself for forgetting to send them a copy.
It’s like when someone tells you about that guy. You know that guy? He’s in that film. No, not that film, the other film. And then they spend twenty minutes explaining the film until you know everything about it, you even remember when you last saw it, but you can’t remember the title. And you definitely recall the actor, maybe you even like him. But without the title, it’s not as if you can just search Google for the lead in – well, whatever it was called.
We all know what’ll happen. A couple of days later, at three in the morning, you’ll remember the actor’s name. Sleep can come more easily then. There’ll be a sigh. Perhaps a slight forehead pat. And then… you wonder if it was really that important.
Well, it’s like that. Except this has been a couple of months, and I no longer remember if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it is/was, I know they would understand my sense of humour, my darkness, my whole story – if only I could think who they are.
The name is not on the tip of my tongue. I don’t know that it’s anywhere my tongue could even reach. It’s just out there, somewhere. I can’t really focus on it right now because I’m about to rewrite my favourite scene of the whole damn thing so far.
(For the sake of posterity, it’s Chapter Four, Book Three, and I know, even now – it’s amazing.)