I have a niece (cute young thing) who, some time ago, decided to find out how many people there were with her name (first name and surname) registered with Facebook, anywhere in the world.
Heaven knows what prompted her to hunt down her namesakes, but hunt them down she did.
She found 73.
This set me thinking.
My muse has always gone out of his way to tell me how unique I am and how delighted he is to be my literary prodder, creative coaxer, story shaper and general ideas factotum. He also makes a mean bacon sandwich.
He likes to earn his keep.
However, I did begin to wonder how justified all his jawache and flattery was. So I decided to explore the nether regions of namseakery for myself.
I followed the example set by my niece and went on my own little hunting expedition to see how many Bryce Mains there were, hiding away in dark corners throughout Planet Facebook.
I found none.
Not one. Nada. Zilch.
I was, and as far as I know still am, the only Bryce Main on the block. My muse, it seems, knows me better than I know myself. Bugger it!
So, who is this singular creature who calls himself Bryce Main? Where does he come from, where is he going to and, more importantly, what is that tattoo over his heart?
Well…I’m Scottish, living in England, somewhere between 50 and 135 years old, married with two grown up boys (one a personal trainer and the other a sculptor) and an adopted cat who likes to draw blood. Lots.
I have written advertising copy since they launched the Titanic and my first completed novel is called Heaven Help Us. It has siblings in the works. It even has its own Facebook page. Pop along, have a coffee, join in the conversation even.
“Don’t forget the tattoo, laddie!”
Oh, right….the tattoo. It’s a dreamcatcher. Native American. My muse thought it might be cool.
“It’s very cool.”
Clever bastard.
“I heard that…..”
