I have been looking through the various sales figures on my books. Around 75 per cent of my on-line book sales in the past year have been in the United States. It may be that I live in a nation of cheapskates who’d rather trawl the Web for a stray pdf than put a few pounds in my pocket. Or it may be that I’m giving my Colonial readers exactly what they want.
Perhaps I should set my next one in Hicksville, SC, where two middle class English children visiting their aunt (only by marriage) are menaced by the Reverend Hezekiah Z. Bottleburger, after they discover he is a cannibal with friends in high places. Because every novel I’ve written seems to involve unpleasantness deep underground, I could have satanic rituals in a complex of ancient Aztecish tunnels. Needless to say, Richard and Jessica frustrate the Rev. Bottleburger and President Weevilstein in their plan to take over world for a conspiracy of reptilian bipeds from beyond the void, and a grateful American people beg forgiveness for their act of treason in 1776.
It would be Enid Blyton meets Philip K. Dick. I could probably write it in my sleep, and wake up to see the cash roll in.
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