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Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: About another 500 words last night, and a field of strange parley.
No new words this morning, because I dreamed that I was stuck for several days at a godforsaken station a very long way from anywhere, even Rhyl, while the train company waited for the rails to dry out in the rain. I whiled away the time by writing a bestseller, which had already been published before the blooming train arrived. It was a pastiche Victorian melodrama with every cliché turned up to 11i, and it might moderately be described as kind of racy. Amazingly, I remembered the principal plot when I woke up, and spent my breakfast-write scribbling it down before I forgot it.
In extreme nutshell: Villain twirls moustache, swindles hero out of his estates, gets his marriage to heroine annulled by a Wile E. Coyote trick, and constantly attempts to seduce said heroine. Heroine follows hero into poverty and disgrace. They rescue saintly matchgirl from certain starvation on streets, and share many hardships, since neither fisticuffs and speechifying (hero) nor weeping and swooning (heroine) prove very lucrative career skills. Also hero Respects heroine, or something, too much to touch her following annulment.
Heroine ends up accepting villain's proposal, as she comes to appreciate that not only does he Truly Love her, but also that his kinks and hers are an irresistibly good fit. Hero marries his secret soulmate the saintly matchgirl - who talks exclusively in Dickensian homilies and Sunday school platitudes just like his own - to full angelic choir. The very-naughty-but-super-nice comic relief characters marry each other. Heroine and villain live in happy and harmless wickedness ever after. Hero and matchgirl, with generous funding from villain, sail ecstatically into the sunrise to find their true vocation as missionaries to the benighted heathen.
Everybody has a considerable deal of sex, by no means all of it missionary, but a discerning public buys the book anyway because it is all artistically integral to the plot, especially that scene in the back of the flower-shop from p.134 where the spine always cracks.
I would like to finish by reporting that I am rich and get to live it up also, but in fact by the end of the dream I am still on the train and waiting for my enormous advance, and wishing I was anywhere that was anywhere, even Rhyl.
Should I somehow ever end up writing this and garnering riches beyond the dreams of avarice, I will be indebted to Librivox, Jerome K Jerome's Stage Land, and the fact that I am finding it rather hard to drop off at present.
