I said before I left that I was going to try not to start a new book while in England. In fact, I succeeded -- and we didn't make a dash across the Welsh border so I could cheat, even. No new books in my absence. No fiction work at all, in fact.
I am starting to go nuts with it.
If I was a sensible person -- so many of my best intentions start this way, you just wouldn't believe. Right. Anyway, if I was a sensible person, I would not start another book. I would work quietly and steadily on short stories and wait for beta reader responses to Thermionic Night to trickle in, and I would maybe implement some of the suggestions that have already arrived. And then I could work on it most efficiently and send it out immediately upon the last set of beta remarks, and fame and fortune and splendor could be mine etc. etc.
If I was still a total fruitbat but a sensible fruitbat -- oh, and there's the rest of my best intentions -- I would start revising Sampo, on the theory that a lot of stuff it needs is apparent even without the beta comments on TN. And on the theory that having unfinished manuscripts hanging around in large quantities is not perhaps the most productive thing for a writer to do, particularly when the said manuscripts are in series the said writer intends to be submitting.
Right. But under the actual circumstances, I just wrote the first paragraph and a half of The Winter Wars and, upon closing it, opened the manuscript for The Mark of the Sea Serpent and wrote several paragraphs.