The Witching Hour

I remember the first time I read about the existence of the mystical witching hour. It was in a P.D. James book, called The Private Patient, and I recall the scene like I was there, walking along the hospital corridors at three am in the morning, waiting for something sinister to occur.

As the name suggests, the witching hour is steeped in folklore. It is said to be the time of morning, when for precisely sixty minutes, the threshold between the world of the living and the dead is most diaphanous. By the way, isn't diaphanous a great word? It sounds rather biological like it might have something to do with diaphragms. However, as you probably know, it's a wonderful way to describe something transparent; like—as it was first described to me—a woman's nighty... we won't go there.

Anyway, you may however be wondering why I'm contemplating witches and hours and nighties. Well, there are a number of reasons.

Firstly, I've been doing a final edit of Violetta Two before I send it off to my very extraordinary editor. It features is Nicolo Paganini, and for those familiar with the violinist extraordinaire, they may also be be aware of the rather unkind comparisons he received in his day—the devil, the hexenmevister or Lucifer personified. His wizardry on the violin fascinated listeners in such an extraordinary way, rumours began to spread about him murdering his lover and transforming her intestines into a gut violin string.

The G string probably, as that's always most amusing.

Secondly, I've been reading The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie. I've been watching it a little too, and the new BBC version really is rather dark. Whilst both the novel and the mini-series adhere to Ronald Knox's Commandment Number Two—all supernatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course—I do think it is the stuff of nightmares.

Which brings me to reason number three. Unfortunately what once was one hour of sleeplessness, is now at least five. I know, I should do something about it, and that is precisely what I am setting out to do. You see, there is so much on my mind. Tens and thousands of worry warts that seem to fester, and I really need to sort them into an orderly pile so I can attack them with salicylic acid.

So here goes.

This is hard, but I'm starting with the biggest. Money. Yep. Boring, but it really is a big angry green monster. The worst of it, is that I am right to worry. You see, we haven't lived the most sensible life. My husband and I don't have savings, we don't own a house and the car we do have—although it is such a dear and reliable ute—is circa nineteen-nighty-five. Then, I watched this documentary on retired musicians struggling to get by on their pension and it did a number on me. Not a song and dance, unfortunately, but perhaps a tap—in the sense that I've hit my head on the sink.

You see, recently things have also become slightly more serious, leaving us with less than nothing and... debt. Ugh, it feels like a swear word. I can barely bring myself to say it again without washing my mouth out with soap. As you may remember, I don't swear and the taste of primary school bathroom soap did, well and truly, cure me of that.

Still, I have a plan. Or, at least I think I do.

Books. Yep, books.

Huh? I know, it doesn't sound like a master plan, but for some reason I believe in it. Therefore I am writing it down here so I don't loose my resolve.

The plan is to write four children's books. The scary part about these, is they take a lot of work, and in order to sell them, I am going to have to go out there and do presentations. I know, but I have a plan for that too. I am going to watch other people, practice a lot at home and then volunteer at a couple of friendly local schools. Easy. I am giving myself until the end of third term so 'mug up', so to speak. You are my witness and so far, I have published one, almost finished the second and drafted the third.

Therefore, by the end of 2024, they should be all launched off into the world.

Then, there are the Agatha Bellsy murder mysteries. I have two series on the go. One set around 1912, full length, involving dual-timelines and overseas travel; and another set locally in a place called Port Martha. These are more of the Agatha Christie cozy variety. So far, I've written almost two of each. The plan is to write a few and then—once the last children's book is out in the world—to publish them.

By the end of 2024, I should have four manuscripts of each.

So... that is twelve books and so far I have written over half of them. Of course, that first draft is the easy part, but as I have been told... you cannot edit a blank page. Oh, and there is also a non-fiction book which is three-quarters finished.

That makes thirteen. Yep, lucky thirteen. Judas, as the thirteenth on the table made this a thing, but more interestingly is the story of the seventieth century, Scottish Witch Isobel Gowdie. Like Paganini, she met the devil and... it didn't end happily.

Hmm... perhaps I should make it fourteen. Fourteen novels by end of two-thousand-and-twenty-four. Four. Yep, that seems more appropriate.