On Friday evening after work I went to my publishers and picked up a few copies of the bound proofs of my debut (published) novel, A Clockwork Apple. It is not, by a long chalk, the first novel I have written, but it will be the first to be published. It was weird, holding this substantial, compact block in my hand - my book! I'm proud, of course, but I have to admit that I also feel quite down about it now. Why? There is a certain rush and determination one has to have in order to push a book out there and get a publisher as passionate about as you are, and now that is spent. Yep, I hope there will be reviewers, but its not as if I will need to convince them of anything - I wont, as the word is already writ! Maybe its just another stage in this particular journey with it - Im sure it is. I have already begun work on writing other stuff, and, as if needing a change of format, I have begun the initial stage of writing a satire for TV. Im not sure if it has got wings, but sometimes you have to trust the idea and run with it for long enough until it takes off and flies by itself. When I think about all the stories I want to write I get overwhelmed. I want to explore Celtic mythology because my Irish mystical dad used to call me and my sisters banshees and used to call my little brothers leprechauns and the like and its as if he had a natural store of this mythology, whereas I, growing up in Thatcher's Britain, on Manchester council estates, didn't. But I also have a bit of a disagreement with mythology, even though I need to know more, because it can be seen as, fundamentally, an exclusively patriarchal and ruling class discourse in which women are whores or madonnas. Ugly and old, or beautiful and young. But then I also admit that I dont yet know enough to make too many firm opinions. All I know is that I want to explore, dig deeper into the world of the story and I suppose, for now, A Clockwork Apple, as a novel, has come to an end because the story has already been told, like a child that has just flown the nest.