Well that was odd.

I  went into my office earlier with the intention of progressing some material I am committed to hand in at work this week. Like an idiot I thought I'd first type up some rough notes for this "limbering up" novel/series that I had scribbled down longhand in a notebook.

Three thousand seven hundred and eighty three words later the work is not progressed but a fairly detailed set of story outlines for three and a bit novels is done.  There is a long way to go, especially with brainstorming some world building material including an economic structure, but I'm almost at a stage where I could split the notes into chapters and sketch some core scenes in.

Essentially I just let my mind run free and jotted down what seemed to work then went back through and harmonised it all, jotting in story features from book three that I need to presage in one and two.  I am both pleased and puzzled by this. I'm pleased because I didn't think I had it in me - and puzzled for exactly the same reason.

Of course it may look like nonsense in the morning but it is progress.I do have a nagging guilt about not getting my paid work done though.

Oh, and one of my very, very few readers may be pleased to learn that a certain Glaswegian talking dog has survived. Despite my best efforts, throwing sticks over cliffs and all sorts, the brute won't leave.