To me the pleasure of writing fiction is creating characters and then putting them through the wringer of life, or at least through the wringer of the life I have constructed for them. I create the characters, the world they inhabit and how they live their lives, and can on a whim write them off.
If that isn't megalomania what is?
In the world I create 'the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all,' to coin a phrase or two.
This pretentious preamble is to warn those of a nervous disposition that I have a new story ready for editing before being loosed on Sol. It is something of a change of subject for me as it is in a contemporary, pre- COVID 19, setting and is a crime themed romance, located in East Anglia, with various bits and bobs of stuff that interests me, but maybe not everyone, bolted on.
It is strange how a story comes about, well at least how my stories come about. The current one started with the title for the first chapter, an ending sentence for the last chapter, and the words of a 1940's popular song running through what passes for a brain in my head.
From tiny acorns do mighty oak trees grow. Although this story is not about arboriculture and it is not mighty, although 'Mighty' does make a showing.
Best regards
Jack G