It's easy to forget about things sometimes. I was looking back through some old work to see if there was a short story suitable for submission somewhere, and I discovered a half forgotten series of six of them, for which I promptly wrote a seventh.
It seems like an odd thing to forget about; after all, it's hardly an odd sock or a set of car keys. I used to think, when I saw collections of short stories by famous authors who claimed that they'd just 're-discovered' them in the back of notebooks, that it was all nonesense. Now I know better. I suppose it's because, with something like that, you write them more for yourself than with any hope of actually successfully submitting them. I can't imagine anyone agreeing to an extended series in a hurry.
Maybe that's part of why they're actually quite good, because I'm not particularly trying with them. I've found a lot of times that if I write something just for a bit of fun, it turns out a lot better than if I sit down and think "right, this time I'm going to produce something the editors will love".
On the reading front, I've been enjoying Wodehouse's Ring for Jeeves, which is quite an odd one in that Bertie Wooster is nowhere to be found, having gone off to a school that teaches the idle rich to fend for themselves. It's perfectly pitched and very funny.
I've also been trying to remember everything I've read so far this year, with limited success. Perhaps I should keep a list. (Incidentally, there's nothing quite like seeing your own name show up on someone else's list, as happened when my friend Adam, who read through the first novel, included it on his list of everything he'd read last year). Maybe if I go and stare at my bookshelves, something will come back to me.