Writing a novel is ambitious. Writing about one’s family is folly (someone said, “if you write about your family, you should write as if they were all dead”.) Writing a historical novel is Herculean.
As I set about doing all three, something else happened: I’ve become ridiculously obsessed by what happened to individuals who lived in France between 1940 and 1944. Worse, I now feel a burning need to share my thoughts and find I have no other alternative but to start a blog.
Of course there are three million five hundred thousand blogs on the same subject, but I still hope other geeks and some close friends will be interested in what I have to say about it. Or what others have said about it.
The novel is the story of a family which lived a golden life until it was torn by a war that turned into a civil war. It’s been a long, slow, lonely endeavor, and it’s still in progress.
As I keep digging, I will pass on any skeletons and treasures I find and impart whatever wisdom I gain in the process.
I will also write about other things but that’s a surprise.
To be continued.