what will happen next...

On Sunday night, overlooked by my grandma's Japanese doll, life falls in lines around me. I wonder to myself, what will happen next.

The manuscript has been sent, the washing turns, clothes tumble in a watery spin. The travelling has paused, just for a little while and I stare at the sudden spring sky. I look at my feet on our old living-room rug (that we keep on promising we will replace). I examine the lines that divide our space, straight things moving from A to Z.

I think of promises and deadlines; words typed on top of Spanish mountains. My toenails are red and pillar box bright. I think of building and climbing and mystery, and how the lines of our existence generally curve. 

I am working on stories and a project that makes me laugh. In between the workshops and the eating of garlic aioli (served with steamed vegetables and a bite of salt cod), I imagine an entirely new tale. I scrub floors, unexpectedly. 

On Sunday night, I murmur, quietly to myself, you know, it will happen next...

Late at night

It's late and they are sleeping. I am tucked into the sofa; lost in revisions. Midnight wishes, I'm waiting for the pumpkin, or should it be the golden carriage. The words keep spilling, endlessly. I cut, shape, paste and add and add. Nothing ever stays the same. Bones ache, but I buzz endlessly, read Virginia Wolff and Issac Bashevis Singer, fall from one world to another. Words come and I scribble in a green and blue notebook. Handwritten letters to be turned into typed fonts. The manuscript will be ready soon. I'll come to an end and it is strange this last rush, different from the flesh and blood making of a play; so internal. Books just exist inside your head. Nobody can see the making. It's only manifestation is an utter mess of papers that flutter in piles, all over the house. Soon, I'll take a vacation, make bread and play. Breath real deep from the inside out. Then, it will begin again.

more bread

I can't seem to stop this making of bread. I don't follow a recipe, but feel the flour and water, a spot of milk, a sprinkle of salt. It's an intuitive process, a break from the lining up of words, the structuring of chapters, the revisions of manuscripts.

wednesday

Wednesday has been a day for roasting vegetables; scarlet red tomatoes, courgettes green as christmas trees and pale yellow onions coated in olive oil, burnt to an umber brown. I added orange lentils, bouillon, let it all simmer, bubble at a gentle, almost not there heat. Wednesday has been a day for afternoon naps that sent me swimming into soupy slumber from which I have not yet emerged. We've painted, made fairy cakes and stayed in our pyjamas. Wednesday is ten days since I've finished my manuscript, sent my book off. Ten days in which I've worked, ate, slept and trudged through fatigue; tiredness, heavy as mud, carried with joy at the gift of my left life. Wednesday has held me, focused on the body; food, sleep and the presence of two little girls. I don't plan, but soothe, pamper my brain which has been focused non-stop for over eight months. I am trying to come down slowly from the top of the mountain, sit and smell the flowers, rather than fall with a bump. My mind constantly strays to the inner world of my book, hankering for more, planning the next story. I itch to write, scrape more words onto the page, imagine, conceive, put down. Instead, I cook, walk, read books sat on red velvet cafe cushions, buy expensive cheese and drink champagne.

in the forest

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.

May and June

May and June. Months for growing. June brought wet, greasy rain that soaked into the dry earth. In May, the sun shone, burnt the earth desert brown. We bought bright flowers and planted out our window boxes with sweet multi-coloured petals. I sat, back bent, eyes fixed to the pixeled screen and wrote, wrote and wrote some more. I sent my dreams up into the sky and imagined fairy dust for my daughter's birthday cards. We ate summer soup for the first time; rich, spicy minestrone, speckled with barley and courgettes, fresh tomatoes blended into deep red. We swam in the freezing sea, plunging winter white skin into icy water. For seconds. May and June. Unforgettable months with surprising answers. I catch a train, run a course, sit waiting at the station in the still of the heat. While waiting for my connection, I learn that immobility and stillness are essential in the cocktail of travel and high temperatures. I rest on a chair, eat sprouted spelt bread and wait. May and June. I neglect this space, do not unpack my case, have left washing dirty and to do lists unticked. May and June. I feel like the shape of my life fits my body and soul.

back again

One year later and I am back again. I started writing here on January the 24th 2008. I wrote posts for one year, stopping in December 2008. One year later and I am back again. Back here to write of waves, upside down journeys, dark skies, the blue sea, granite walls, sleeping children and the little moments which set my fingers clicking on the keyboard; words falling soft as midnight snowflakes, white and cold against the navy sky. I am back with vowels and consonants, words and sentences and paragraphs to fill my pixel landscape. I am back scratching stories into the empty screen, snuggling inside the letters that I write. I return because of the very evrydayness of this exercise, this electronic trace of space and time. I go now to finish my bowl of carrot, sweet potato and cumin soup, my slice of brown bread and feta cheese.