Sneaking a post on a borrowed computer with a two year old on my knee. Here, we drift amongst green trees, watch coffee drip into a brown clay pot, swim in the lake daily. With no Internet connection or radio or TV, we yawn and watch the trees at sunset, as lizards dart at our feet. Whispering leaves sing hushed lullabies as we fall asleep to grasshoppers chants and the regular croak of a frog. Everyday, I write. Building words, wanting to take care of my characters and their lives. My daughter says that she's too tired now. I have to go and finish my tea. Watch the sky.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Clothes are spinning in the tumble dryer- falling and rising inside the heated cylinder, cuffs touching trousers, caressing a hem. Tomorrow, we are leaving for the green forest. Rest. Space. Slow drunk coffee. Idle green tea. Words making a story unfold. This is what my dreams are made of.
In the last fifteen days, I have journeyed to Paris, flown to Korea, given a conference paper, tasted hot chilli cabbage, drunk fizzy fermented milky pale rice drinks, peeked at the elegant beauty of unvisited mountains, admired the stationery, flown back to Paris, spent the night in a stuffy yellow curtain-stained station hotel, caught the Eurostar, watched a girl cry too early in the morning, camped in a storm and woke thinking I was inside a flying spaceship, been to a red velvet cupcake Brighton wedding, returned to France, worked at the hospital.
Tomorrow, after work, we drive down South, hit the autoroute in our new second-hand VW camper, watch the kids grin in the back of the van.
For now, the children are sleeping in soft sticky slumber. The washing turns in the heat.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
It's early in the morning. Before they awake, before he awakes, the cat and I have opened our eyes and are creeping around the half-lit house. In the dusky, nearly-dawn, I half dream of what might happen. At the moment, doors are opening in my house, in my life. People are interested in my writing, which has been travelling around the Internet, neatly packaged in a file for them to open. Hope has been glaring at me from under my bed, reclaiming the light of day from amongst the dust bunnies. This summer, I must brush off the cobwebs from attic dreams, tie an apron round my waist, put my hands to work, finish my book. I will shelter in the deep green of the forest, drift in the emerald leaves and type.