The first blog I started is all me. With my name at the top, what can you expect? It’s a sort of me, me , me, topped off with even lots more me kind of blog. I fill it with my photos, my short stories, my drawings, my travel articles, my life, my old town, my new town, my this and my that, my shoes my hat, and even my bat. I haven’t got a rat, or a cat. But whynot a bit more my me, while I’m at it.
The third blog is the one where I try to get you to accept I’m really a serious, philosophical type of fellow, despite the other two blogs, telling you I can’t possibly be. And would be doing the world an enormous favour by handing myself in to one of those Victorian sanatoriums that only appear in old black and white films these days, and that are so efficient at emptying cinemas so quickly. And grey. Lots of grey. The ones where they chain people like me to iron bedsteads and fill us full of sedatives through hyperdermics the size of bicycle pumps.
Pedersen’s Last Dream is a serious novel that is nothing of the sort. I’m actually making it up as I go along. I’m sure most writers would claim they make it up as they go along, but I really am making it up as I go along. And I tell you how I do, as I do it. Or did it, at it’s almost finished in a sort of, «How’s the new novel going along ,dear?» «It’s almsot finished, dear,» sort of way.
Three blogs seems almost greedy, I suppose. But then I don’t eat nearly as much cake as many other people do to make up for it. Three big cakes seems rather greedy to me.
At the End of Tobago Street, which is the name of this blog, which you have probably already forgotten, as so many blogs have such instantly forgettable names, was set up just because I couldn’t stand my second manuscript hanging around gathering dust and doing nothing for so many years. It was beginning to remind me of myself. In fact, so many years had it been hanging about, it dates back to the times publishers still used to send rejection slips by post. And lots. Well, they sent me lots. They all began with «Dear Bryan,» or «Dear Bryan Hemming,» or even «Dear Mr Hemming», though I can’t imagine myself considered very dear to anyone calling me Mr Hemming.
None of the rejections would actually say: «your manuscript stinks so why don’t you flush it down the toilet pan, where it belongs?» But I learned to read between the lines, and knew that was exactly what they were trying to tell to me as kindly as possible. The crueller ones used to tell me to send it on to someone they probably hated with a vengeance, who they claimed, «might be interested.»
So finally I decided to give it its very own blog, as a sort of grand cyber mausoleum, where it can Rest in Peace for eternity. Which, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed – or not – gets shorter by the day.