...in the forests of the night", as to quote William Blake, one of my favourite poets. It's quite a good metaphor for me, currently, actually, as fire is so uncontrollable and has many aspects, the tiger standing for me. Well, I am a sanguine, but that's the only way I could be compared to a tiger, although I can have quite a temper sometimes. And the forests of the night? The world, probably, but I can't really say. Then again, I can't really say what the world is; in fact, no one can, but I'm drifting off into philosophy again (Descartes, anyone?) So back to topic. In less poetic words I could be described as a bad excuse for a polymath, who is annoyed by the frontiers blocking his path where he would appreciate the sky being the limit. I have once already tried writing and miserably failed; back then it was a certain TV show that let me kiss the muse, but in my usual fortune (meant sarcastically) I obviously kissed exactly the muse no one wants, the one who is drunk and sick and is dead very soon. However, I had the, actual, fortune of being bit by Apollo's pesky little snake once again and being fascinated by the works of PG Wodehouse, Sir AC Doyle, Charles Dickens, and the famed "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" by RL Stevenson. They created a glowing affection for Victorian and Edwardian England in me, that caused me to get into creative writing again. So now I'm writing an own novel, using the holidays as a kind of NaNoWriMo (some of you will know this - it's an event in November with the goal of writing a novel with a min of 50000 words. You'll see me lurking a little bit here first - reading up on the stuff you guys posted before I came here - before I start posting. Pip, pip!