Ah, the joy of this. We have reached over twenty-two thousand words. I’m seeing the characters all speak out in ways that I can predict and the way forward needs nothing more than time. I can see this doing really well, and the way is onward.
However, all this progress has a cost. I’m up at 5.30 am to do this. My little guy still doesn’t sleep through the night, guys. So at least twice I’m awake at 4 am. Add a 5.30 am start with hard work behind it, and it is hard. Hard. I won’t write it out but just, please, say that word out loud, slowly. I found myself Thursday evening over the stirfry dizzy. Nothing to do but serve up and keep going. (Sorry it was so bad, other half). And that has to happen if I am going to do this…
There really is something about this time of year that I love. I grew up in not necessarily lavish, but large houses, homes with a lot of grassland around them. My mum’s home was a farm in Tipperary, lots of walks around it. I’ve always pointed to that as the reason I love old things. Not even antiques, just old, really old. An old wall, ivy spilling over it, a few fallen stones for good measure, while above the sky is quiet and overcast, is the most soothing thing in the world to me. I was on the bus with Little Man today. He loves the bus, seeing the world from a different angle, and we passed all these old, hidden houses with their broken walls, the sky all quiet and soft with clouds, and the leaves falling like a silent ticker tape parade for us. I thought of how often the image of that old world would come back to me during my life, like some mental comfort blanket for my mind. I don’t live in an old house, or in an old world. But if I had my chance, I would find some place not new, or rushed, and just sit and look and let it age. And let time, like a slow, low, cello note, sooth and smooth and pour over me.
For some reason this is the most peaceful thing in the world to me.
Happy Sunday. Talk to you next week.
