The novel (working title The Marquis) is progressing like an operation to remove wisdom teeth entwined with my rib cage. After two years five months three days two hours and twenty five minutes there are signs. But do I like the signs? Each day I set out like that excited five year old on my way to Jessica Jones's birthday party. Sadly, something terrible happened at Jessica Jones's birthday party. We were all led away in silence, and now many years later there are stories.
I have thirty stories published (there are links on the left side bar) and loads of poems at gattopublishing, What You Will See, although after emailing updates to my profile the photo with dodgy specs remains. However, I have an idea to make two slim collections into one not so slim, call it Poems and Stories and send it to the latest emerging publisher. Why not?