(I post less often these days, because I think I was supposed to be writing a whizz bang promotional authors blog, but instead I end up writing stuff like this:
Rainy days to wrap yourself up in and ignore the world. Chatter recedes. Sinking, detach and float.
Watching age creep up your legs, stiffening, slowing.
Story is an alchemical process. Good story, which I don't have right now. I have a needle buzzing above a woman's wrist, a girl in a derelict house with an older man, an inbreath. The set-ups, not the pay-offs.
I need the twist. The moment it all coalesces. That's a gift from the Great Whatever that I have to wait for.
Last night we drove to a house by the beach. Small, empty, beautiful. A garden. But a railway line cutting past it, six feet from the front door. Could we live there? The train horns, the electromagnetic fields. Freight trains. We havered.
Windows over the sea. If life was a story you could wait, and the answer would come, perfect and wry and inevitable.
- which is not really what any reader would want to hear, is it? It's rambling stream of consciousness nothing. Warm up exercises, to be honest, in preparation for the real writing.
Ah well. Sorry.