I began writing a new novel, a thriller this time. I wrote the first draft months ago and carried it with me halfway around the world until the mood to begin writing this story struck me . The story at this stage resembles a group of excited and cooperative children. The chapters eagerly jostle one another while waiting to be dressed and marched out onto the stage. The story line is intriguing, primordial evil, redemption, perdition, reluctant heroics, accidents of history, mothers milk issues for me. The process of creating a novel world brings new energy to the work.
The weather over Bangkok has become a dense grey inversion zone of slow settling grit . Our worship worthy but fickle breeze has abandoned us, leaving us wilted and feeling confused and rejected, like a jilted lover who awakens to find an empty bed just when everything had seemed to be going perfectly.
The outside world of embroiling streets and matchstick sunshine is an entity that we negotiate with considered care and loyal trepidation. We’ve become night people, like Nosferatu, we venture out only in the cool evening after the sun has gone and birdsong has been replaced by squeaky bats, buzzing insects and the fresh squeals from the unrestrained children and other prisoners of the sun. Conversely, the stultifying heat has engendered a good environment to write. It’s Saturday, same as any other day, the chapters roll playfully off my finger tips, happy in the shade.