Thursday, 26 February 2015
I'm writing a book.
I know for a fact that were I to announce 'I'm painting a picture' then a beam of approval would be forthcoming. 'How interesting, exciting, amazing, fulfilling' may be a few responses. A few more spring to mind. 'I'm having a baby', 'I'm renovating a house', 'I'm swimming the Channel, 'I'm having an affair'. See what I mean ? you're far more likely to engage me in further conversation. Everyone is writing a book, how can they not be ? everyone has a story to tell quite probably involving having a baby, renovating a house, swimming the Channel or some other amazing act, possibly slipping in an affair for good measure. And there you have it, wallop. A story.
And the main culprit as to why I don't write as many words as I would hope for in a day is distraction. A fly buzzing round the room can be a fascinating subject should I allow my eyes to wander and chart its progress. I know how many tiny crocuses are clustered on the lawn for example, I've watched the neighbours jolly yellow daffodil heads nodding in the wind and I know how marvellous the morning light looks on the sensuous hills opposite. I love the deepening shadows as the day draws to a close. I can be fascinated by wonky chimney pots with screeching seagulls on top, sloping roofs and solid chestnut trees as they arch upwards and wait patiently for the warm air of spring to blow over them.
So that when I am asked what I have been doing all day, as sometimes I am, I can reply quite truthfully that I have been watching. I have been quietly observing, reflecting and turning stuff over in my mind.
Because I don't know if I've told you this, but, I'm writing a book.