I put off starting a new book because I didn’t know what it was going to be about.
I had an idea for a title.
Which also suggested a subject.
I had an idea for a protagonist, but not one particularly related to the title or the subject.
A few themes have been drifting around in my head.
And that’s about it.
I’ve hardly written anything yet, but my protagonist has just flown to New York and is, as we speak, heading upstate.
So. A story that takes place in America. In a modernist log cabin. Involving a mysterious disappearance.
I wonder how all this came to be?
Sometimes I question why I even bother having a conscious mind. I might as well go shopping and leave my unconscious mind at home to write.
That’s more or less how it happens anyway.