What do you call a fledgling work in progress, where the title is provisional and the story-line is embryonic? Where everything about is insubstantial and ephemeral? An idea!
Daylight saving has run out of time, spent for another year, the ghosties and ghoulies are hanging around the shops, vying for space with the advance guard of Santa's legions and writers, aspiring writers, dreamers, scribblers and the literary foolhardy are braced for a mad dash through November; burning their way past Guy Fawkes on this side of the pond and stuffing as much in as they can before Thanksgiving on the other side.
