Psychiatrists wallow in them, introverts analyse them endlessly and creative people are supposed sometimes to gain inspiration from them ("Last night I dreamed that I went again to Manderley"). Yet my dreams are useless. No help at all.
You might expect that, when body and brain are at rest but that the old grey matter, at least, is receptive, then something, some little scrap, might be salvaged from the polycromatic adventures that it gets up to when on nocturnal walkabout that would help to free the writer's block. Some little touch that might suggest a plot twist.
Yet what am I to make of me being at the bottom of a deep canyon with, in the far distance, a speck-like aeroplane approaching and me being able to hear the conversation between pilot and co-pilot quite clearly, but unable to understand a word because it is conducted in gobbledegook? See what I mean? My dreams are no help at all. Never have been.
Perhaps a late night, large brandy. What do you think?
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I love your books and look forward to reading the Shangani Patrol. You mention in your blog that you don't like to be gory, er may I just remind you about Poor Simon and his genitals. Now that put me right off my tea, never the less I'm not complaining and yes I think I can imagine the scene you are talking about in Agincourt (Archers and the tummy problems?). I look forward to the new book, but what about Simon Fonthill, I hope you haven't killed him off! Will he be back?
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