I am just about to enter that most frightening of all places; starting a new novella. It is horrifying! There is of course great unknown of the empty page that stares at you white as a snow-filled sky and just as chilly. Then there's the space in your head which is jumbled with ideas - none of them formed, none of them seem useful or ordered. They're just there waiting like a horribly untidy sock drawer waiting to be tidied and made into something half way decent Then there's the time available to you. Curtailed, foreshortened, always limited and squashed. You know full well that if you waste that time, it's never going to be available to you again. It has no shelf life, there are no second chances. Those seconds, minutes, that precious hour if not filled with writing something useful is gone. Forever. So, wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. I am now about to enter the bat cave of the unknown and try and come out with something that looks half way ike a first draft...