In idle moments some of us like to speculate about what kinds of adventures we would like to experience if we got the chance and if we could do anything we wanted.  Climb a mountain?  Sail a boat down the Amazon River?  When I’ve interrogated myself about what secret desires for adventure I might be harboring I find that, strangely enough, the only one I can really think of is writing a novel.  I have no desire to climb a mountain, drive a racing car or walk across the continent of Australia, but I’ve always been curious about what the experience of novel writing would be like, and I’ve always wanted to try my hand at it and see if I could do it or not.  Over the past few years I’ve been occasionally visited by these “someday I will write a novel” thoughts, but I’m now to the point where I really feel that I must do it, must finally bring it out of the realm of dreaming and wishful thinking and make it a reality.  And I have an idea.

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