The name's Bond

A friend of mine - a teacher - has a copy of a James Bond thriller written by someone in the style of Ian Fleming.
Ahem, I know.
He feels it fails miserably, with Bond introduced as 'James Bond' in the first moment of contact with the hero.
"No mystery; no subtlety," Steve moaned at me.
"It's not meant to be subtle," I said. "They've decided to ensure the reader knows who it's about. And look at the type - it's much larger than the thickness of the book warrants. No time for subtlety."
"Hmmm," said Steve. "You're right. Well, I didn't buy it."
He hasn't mentioned it again. And as I'm in my own writer's shell, I don't feel too beholden to ask about it. The fanfare is remarkably quiet, so maybe they (?) are trying to play it down so as not to harm the Bond franchise. I wouldn't know.
In the style of Ian Fleming? Why don't they just make the film and forget about the book? Bond, after all, ceased long ago to be about the writing.
I love the Bond films. I read Dr No, which is so much more beguiling as a book than a film. The famous tarantula scene in the book actually has a kind of Caribbean centipede crawling up the bedclothes. Frightening, nonetheless.
Action and dialogue, with little introspection. A book made for film. Maybe I should try it. Nah - wouldn't be me, I guess.
Go on then, someone: commission me, lol!!

Good Times

On Youtube, there's an album version of the fabulous Chic tune 'Good Times'. I listen to it often. Even though it's an upbeat tune, there's an ever-so-slight wistfulness about it - like Donna Summer's Dinner With Gershwin, for example, or Jacko's Rock With You - that seems to grab me so hard.
It's that 'grab' I've been searching for lately. I still haven't written the new version of chapter two. Nothing sinister: I waited a long time before writing the prologue, which still seems a trifle unfinished compared to chapter one. There's lots of work still to be done, and I'm edging closer to achieving it.
The whole book is my goal. I understand that now - there seems to be no good reason for sending it off half-written. The end of it is a long way away. But who cares? I certainly don't, as I love writing it... when I'm actually writing it.
I'm pretty certain no-one's written what I'm writing. Not that it means too much, I guess, but at least it seems to be different. Gotta hope it works first, otherwise originality will be lost.
It's beginning to hurt, though, knowing I have to write it, to make it all work. That, for me, is a good thing. If I feel no pain, then I feel nothing.
The spirit of Dickens lives!
Living off the wall...