Not that I like going to cocktail parties. Which is odd, because I like cocktails.
I was told that the modern author needs an online presence. So, I'm blogging.
Here's what you can expect:
Reflections on the black art of mystery writing, as I round the final curve with the first draft of my third novel, This Private Plot. (Fourth, actually, but I've finally given up on the publishability of my first, apprentice piece.)Here's what you won't get:
Dispatches from the home front -- if there's any humor to be found in the life of a bemused English ne'er-do-well cruelly trapped in the body of a minivan-driving, middle-aged, work-at-home, New York-suburban soccer dad, I'll report on it.
Odd thoughts and the occasional joke.
Detailed political analysis, religious tracts, conspiracy theories, or arcane philosophies of life. I promise.
I did try this once before. When I was ten, I was given a Letts junior schoolboy diary for Christmas, and I resolved to start a journal of my life from that point on. This coincided with my first week back at Beavers County Primary School in Hounslow, Middlesex, after the winter break. (That's fifth grade, for those of the American persuasion.)
My first entry, on the Monday, was "Normal school day. Prefects elected." (Modesty seemed to have precluded my mentioning that I was one of those prefects.) My second entry, on Tuesday, was the equally engrossing "Normal school day." By Wednesday, this had become "N.S.D." I never made it to the second week, but I think there's something there to fascinate future generations of social historians. At least, if they can read between the lines.
Let's hope I do better this time.