It's obviously time for my annual crisis of confidence.

I'm feeling twitchy and irritable, and that's never a good sign. The universe is trying to tell me something and, as usual, I don't want to hear it.

The writing itself has been going very well this year, with novels placed with Black Death Books and Ghostwriter Publications, and short story sales in several pro markets alongside the new Penny Dreadful Company chapbook venture which, if it really takes off, will get me a higher profile than ever before.

But... but... there's always a but. I said this at this time last year.

"I'm unsure about my eye for the market. I write what I want to write, producing books that I would want to read. But I'm a fifty year old man steeped in pulp fiction from an early age. I want the big deal, to see my books on shelves in shops all over the world. That's always been the dream, but my obsessions just don't cut it in the marketplace."

And a year on, that's still what I'm doing, still writing pulpy fiction that makes me smile.

The -big- dream is still far off, still the golden ring to strive for. I love writing, love the pictures that flow in my mind.

But is this all there is? Am I missing out by not pushing harder to write something that would reach a -much- wider audience? Have I allowed myself to get into a rut from which I'll find it hard to escape?

I'm not big on retreating into a shell and gazing at my navel, but maybe that's just what I need to do.

On the other hand, my Carnacki box set is due soon. That was something of an experiment for me. It'll be interesting to see what the critical reaction is, if any. That might give me some pointers as to a possible way ahead.

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"One of the premier storytellers of our time" - FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND
William Meikle