like peeping my head round the quiet door to see if the cat has come home. hello. she said, her voice a dry brush into to wind. have been busy. Writing but mostly getting through each day's to-do list and until the book brings me a great sum and such the list means cleaning the house, doing the recycling, walking the dog, preparing classes, reading up on rhymes for next week's creative writing class and then getting in my head to thrash out a thousand words and try for a few short story competitions. Underneath the pile sits the book I want to write based on the life of my grandmother. I have the title already - the woman with the letter in her hand - and I have the front cover. I even have ten thousand words but for whatever reason she's having a little rest right now. Then there's emails to write, answer, sun to sit in.
but not only women with a room of their own and a thousand a year or whatever the equivalent would be now (thirty thousand probably) manage to write novels. part of me yearns to Fen Shui so much and part of me just lives with it - this chaos which occasionally aids cretivity but mostly dampens it.
but the sea at my window is calm, the birds wheeeling and screaming and doing what they do - intent on the few things they must focus on - survive.
I have been watching the wild. It's dangerous. So many die. So manyc arcases washed up on the beach, so many oyster catchers with broken wings. It's a wonder so many live at all. Coping with danger makes us strong I suppose and so this hankering after tea and eternally hoovered carpets and radio three and arranged bookshelves and ample toilet paper and gleaming windows and in short ORDER is perhaps not embracing the danger that will make me strong.
I on the other hand am bloody sick of moaning about the eleastic band between my imagined perfect creative state and what is. A bit of tension - good, too much, breaks. The carpets are fine. The sea is full of seaweed and whales and bits of stuff and angel fish. Girl - get on with it.