Take Note
Among the many wonderful things I inherited from my father is something that I don't admit to many people. It's a bit embarrassing but I know I'm not alone in doing this. I talk to myself. If you were a fly on the wall in my home, on frequent occasions you would catch me throwing my hands up while I pace around and talk over some problem with me, myself and I. I don't do this in public or even when my family are around. I have to be alone because it still strikes me as a tad odd to be doing this but, you see, it works. It allows me to brainstorm, albeit with only my own brain, all the challenges I come up against in my writing. Would that character really say that? Would blackmail be sufficient motivation for violence? How tall should a housemaid robot be? It all gets thrown into the mix, tossed around and dumped on a plate of conclusion (mostly). The only downside to my lone rantings is that I sometimes enjoy the conversation so much that I forget bits of it. For...