Three blogs seems almost greedy, I suppose. But then I don’t eat nearly as much cake as many other people do to make up for it. Three big cakes seems rather greedy to me.
Missives from Santa Catalina is another of my blogs. Formerly known by the title of a novel At the End of Tobago Street I wrote during last century, it was set up because I couldn’t stand the thought of a manuscript hanging around gathering dust for the rest of time. It had been rejected by too many publishing houses.
None of the rejections would actually say:“Your manuscript stinks so why don’t you flush it down the pan, where it belongs?” But I learned to read between the lines, and knew they were trying to let me down as gently as possible. Some had told me to send it on to someone they probably hated with a vengeance, who “might be interested.”
So finally I decided to give it its very own blog, as a sort of grand cyber mausoleum, where it can Rest in Peace for eternity. Which, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed – or not – gets shorter by the day.
My second blog is all me, with my name at the top. It’s a sort of me, me , me, topped off with even lots more me kind of blog. I fill it with my photos, my short stories, my drawings, my travel articles, my life, my old town, my new town, my this and my that, my shoes and my hat, and why not a bit more my me while I’m at it.
PEDERSENS LAST DREAM
The third blog is this one, where I try to get you to accept I’m really a serious, philosophical, type of fellow, despite the other two blogs, telling you I can’t possibly be. The reality is that I would be doing the world an enormous favour by handing myself in to one of those Victorian sanatoriums that only appear in old black and white films, and that are so efficient at emptying movie theatres so quickly. And grey. Lots of grey. They always have lots of grey. The ones where they chain people like me to iron bedsteads and fill us full of sedatives through hyperdermics the size of bicycle pumps.
Pedersen’s Last Dream is a serious novel that is nothing of the sort. I’m actually making it up as I go along. I’m sure most writers would claim they make it up as they go along, but I really am making it up as I go along. And I tell you how I do, as I do it. Or did it, at it’s almost finished in a sort of “How’s the new novel going along, dear?” “It’s almsot finished,” sort of way.