Monday, 18 January 2016

Write Life



Widemouth North, a rainbow before the hail struck.

Dartmoor, with snow, ponies, and Mr, before the sun melted all the cloud away.



As this year began we were not entirely baffled to discover it had not brought a great change of fortune. We are metaphorical oligarchs still, with our big family, access to coasts and moorland with moody skies, and reasonably waterproof footwear. It's merely a matter of keeping ourselves housed that causes the trouble. So I had been filling in applications for supplementary employment. So far, no interviews pending. This is either bad fortune, or perfectly fortuitous.

I don’t have to be on this edge to write, but it has a motivational role. Two books in edits, one on a slow journey, one a brisk paced unexpected arrival; one more in serious development, several being lured into existence. One children’s book part illustrated, several more of those roughly worded. 
Today I have been engrossed in the beauty of the seasons, up till now, when I am about to get perplexed by multitudinous deaths. All to good purpose, not gratuitous, although there is a satisfying liberation from consequence when killing on paper. Some of the research was horrific, I am recovering with extra doses of meditation. Some of the research has been tearfully soulfully beautiful. 
18 days in, we're broke, fabulous, the weather is heavy, the lime tree is pushing out blossoms because it doesn't know what else to do. 
A late toast, to 2016: may it bear fruit.