A while ago, I nattered about living in the next book. I was trying to emulate my hero, Anthony Trollope, Tony the T, The T Man, The Teester! (Okay, I'll stop.) I was thinking of a couple of possible next books, actually, not one; both of them have been hanging around on my hard drive for a number of years, in partial form.
Today, somewhat out of the blue, a new book blossomed into ... well, not existence. Potential existence. Serious ideahood. Virtual bookhood. (The B Thing! The Bookster!) It would be mainstream, light but not frothy or shallow. Interesting characters, with a central story line that I've actually been thinking about for a long time but didn't know if I'd ever have a way to write. And it should be possible to do it with a lot of humor, even though the basic subject is quite serious. I love writing humor and do it only rarely in fiction. My last novel, Business Secrets from the Stars, was all humor, as many yucks per page as I could cram in. One reviewer complained that there were too many yucks. Hmph. I had a ball writing it, though. Interestingly, that book begins with its protagonist, Malcolm Erskine, getting an idea for a book and being sort of possessed by it. I'm not possessed with this one, but I am entranced by it.
The seduction part is that I'm eager to get to the new novel (which I'll refer to by an in-house code, just as software companies do for forthcoming releases: BBC) and I'm suddenly feeling impatient to be done with Time and the Soldier so that I can jump into BBC. Gotta fight the temptation to switch in midstream. The end of TimeSold is ... well, sort of almost visible. Must be self-disciplined!