There is a sharp-toothed wind outside my house, calling. The noise drags through me like a spoon stirring curdled milk. Hedgerow berries are turned to moulded knots. Winter's entourage is waking. It will soon be Halloween…
I think this year's story is ready. Not perfected, and full of risk. Not as stomach turning as it was, perhaps the story line is then exposed as rather banal. I care not. The risk is the point. One must bring the fight to the comfort zone. On the 31st, you can read and decide.
Most of my attention is taken up with finishing The Novel (this is how I think of it now, though the next one will assume the same title, and the one after that, it does not signify a solo thing, it's a misuse of the definite article for psychological purpose.)
I don't like to talk about The Novel. If you are talking about writing you are not writing. Why aren't you writing?
I don't like to write about myself- too much self reflection is a hobbler. When I present my life snapshots here, they are done in a way I have cultivated, to be openly reflective. I'm not sure if I can describe more clearly what I mean by this. I even use the third person.
I prefer present tense. I like to be there. This is a difficult habit to overturn (An Artist Goes To The Shops was a past tense project, felt most clumsy!)
Trying to develop a style, to keep a balance and not be confined to a flat level of achievement, to do this in a world that has heart crushing stupidity and humbling redemption and still have something to say that will reach out and be reciprocated: this is my writer's quest and it scares me.