What is there to say when you are writing the way I have been writing? There is no way to make it interesting--it is solitary, introspective, internal; it moves underneath ordinary life. All I can say about my work this month is that sentences are becoming paragraphs. Paragraphs are becoming pages. I am grateful to the universe for this time--health after illness, solitude after family togetherness, writing after not writing. My characters are taking their full shape and speaking to each other as I type away, keeping up with them. Music is helping me--listening to Kate Bush's "50 Words for Snow," David Gray's "Foundling." JS Bach when I need to get up and stretch my back and breathe.
Tonight a Valentine's Day dinner with my Valentine--he who calls me up to dinner when I have been typing in a fine stupor in my office. He who reminds me that I need to get out of the chair and take a walk. With him. Richard who protects and encourages me.
First draft of HOW SHE LEFT almost finished. Happy Valentine's Day.
Tonight a Valentine's Day dinner with my Valentine--he who calls me up to dinner when I have been typing in a fine stupor in my office. He who reminds me that I need to get out of the chair and take a walk. With him. Richard who protects and encourages me.
First draft of HOW SHE LEFT almost finished. Happy Valentine's Day.