The answer’s obvious. After the last story, the next one – and pretty damned quick. You see, there’s nothing quite like reading the finished piece, knowing you’ve created it – the plot, the characters, the descriptiveness, the dialogue.
Sometimes it will have been written in a methodical kind of way, whilst at other times creation is a fever of activity, your fingers whizzing round the keyboard as if a concert pianist. Perspiration is not just through physical work.
Sometimes a thought enters your head like ‘am I ever going to pack in this storytelling game?’ But the answer is immediate. Not on your life. Even if, at heart, it occasionally becomes tedious – and believe me it does – you know you’ll carry on.
You have to – you know you have to – because it’s an addiction. It’s an addiction worse than any drug, because the need for the next high is immediate, and there’s no hope of therapy to help you break the habit.
If I’d known what it would be like after the last story, would I have begun the first? It’s pointless looking back. But a thought for the future: what comes after my very last story? That’s easy. My funeral.
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