I am used to the doldrums that follow the writing of a book. For months on end each morning starts with the book, the creation of today’s contribution to the book, this moment’s work on the book, then, suddenly one day the book is done and before me yawns the abyss of what comes next. The doldrums that stalled me upon completing They Call Me Merlin Sherlock were unusually persistent because of the idea I had developed of what would come next after it. They Call Me Merlin Sherlock is merely the first volume in a two million word epic to be served out in thirty-two short novels each with its own story to tell and jokes to make and each progressing the whole. Ten pages into book sixteen there will be a revelation to make you see all the previous books in a different light and to launch the story of the later books. This is a huge project to commit to. This is a huge abyss of what comes next. This is a life’s work devoutly to be wished. Now that I have wrestled with the angels of doubt and devoted myself to the task, this is the reason for starting each morning with the book.
I wanted to write a classic regular folks would actually read. I wanted to write an adventure academics would find resonant with meaning. You tell me how well I did.