It does seem like quite a long time since Jack climbed up the wall of the Palace (Book No. 6).
There aren’t many people who don’t think they could write a book, if only they had the time for it. But what’s it really like, to write a novel?
I would just love to get going on Bell Mountain No. 14, whatever it turns out to be. But the weather hasn’t been playing ball, not at all, and anyway I haven’t yet received whatever the Lord is going to give me to get the story started.
What I don’t get is why there are so many starkly un-imaginative fantasies published. I mean, how many know-it-all elves and invincible female warriors can the reader stand?
And somehow Abbott and Costello Save the Universe never got written…
