As followers of this blog will know I am currently embroiled in a building project. It is proving to be a real time and energy black hole for me to the extent that I have not managed to find either of those most precious commodities, time and energy, for my writing since I’ve been back in the UK. This is becoming a bit of a worry seeing as writing is how I earn a crust these days. As any experienced self-publisher will tell you momentum is vitally important to keeping things going. Not to mention keeping the pennies rolling in.
As well as time and energy sucks, getting involved in a property project can also prove quite costly financially. I’m thinking of jacking in the writing completely and retraining as a plumber, or a plasterer, or a window fitter, or an electrician, or a kitchen fitter, or a carpenter, or a tree surgeon (I’d be surprised if brain surgeons are on that kind of money an hour). Oh well, in for a penny in for a small fortune. It’s only money, as my dear old dad used to say when he was selling copies of The Big Issue outside Woolworths.
Trouble is money’s what makes the world go round. (Or is it love?) Whatever, everything seems in short supply at the moment. My world is in danger of coming to a grinding halt on its fragile axis. What happens then? The only thing I’m qualified to do is teach primary school children – a sub-section of society my psychiatrist has expressed grave concerns regarding me having future dealings with.
This week some idiot, I forget who, suggested I should ‘do my finances’. This was after my debit card had been declined for the fourth time in an hour. I took this advice and yesterday my frail and aged mother found me curled up, sobbing in the corner of my writer’s retreat (aka the garden shed). Being old and frail didn’t stop her kicking me in the ribs with accompanying shouts to ‘man up’. (I’m glad she was wearing those novelty Minion slippers I gave her for her ninety-fifth birthday and not the hobnail boots she still insists on wearing to Tescos.)
So here I am. Back at my desk in the shed. I was here yesterday, too. I’m working on The Fallen Agent. It’s written. I’m editing. I’m not only enjoying the read, I’m loving being back to what I do best: long periods of sitting on my arse, staring out of the window interspersed with brief and feverish hammerings at the computer keyboard.
I’ll be back at the money pit tomorrow, but for today I’m back living the dream.
Have a lovely Sunday, everyone. And if any of you still go to church, please include my name and the words ‘winning lottery ticket’ if you get to talk with the man upstairs today.
Poor Hands (Booker & Cash #3) came out last weekend. Initial feedback is encouraging. I’m sure I’m no different to any other writer in that I care what readers think of what I produce. I particularly care what my regular readers think of what I write, especially when it’s in a series. Part of the reason for this blog post is to offer my sincere thanks to all readers, old and new, who have downloaded a copy of Poor Hands. And if you’ve gone on to read and enjoy it all the better. And if you’ve then left a review on Amazon thank you again. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, it’s my opinion that writers are nothing without readers.
![Poor Hands (a Booker & Cash Story Book 3) by [Tidy, Oliver]](https://images-eu.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61xAN4mXj4L.jpg)
Oliver Tidy 