Like many writers (I imagine), I have various pleasant daydreams which I indulge in from time to time. One of my favourite is the one where my agent rings to tell me that Steven Moffat's been on the phone. He's seen my latest episode of EastEnders and (inexplicably) thinks I'd be just right for Dr Who.
OK, so it's pure unadulterated fantasy. But a guy can dream.
The only problem with this particular piece of escapism is that the daydream never stops there. It always continues. And, before I know it, Mr Moffat has called me in for a meeting, and I have to pitch him a story outline. And, at this point, my fantasy descends into the stuff of nightmares as I flail around hopelessly, waffling about time-travel paradoxes and generally cocking up the greatest (fantasy) opportunity I've ever (not) been given.
But not any more.
I got stuck in a minor rut yesterday on my spec project. Nothing serious, but it was evident that nothing good was going to emerge onto the page for the rest of the day. So, I decided to put it to one side for an afternoon and work on something completely different.
And I found my Dr Who story.
OK, so the chances of Steven Moffat picking up the phone are just a tad remote. But, you never know. One day, in some strange parallel universe, it might just happen. And when it does, parallel me will be ready.
I've got a Dr Who story to knock his socks off!