On Wednesday afternoon I spent HOURS writing two waffly paragraphs about my adventures in Bookends in Carlisle and how I’d come home and built a cozy nest with tea, crumpets oozing honey and butter and my lovely haul of musty paperbacks (3 for £8!). It was probably the best paragraph ever written about the glorious warren of a bookshop – including a description of the lovely damp and dingy basement full of music manuscripts and Rupert annuals with the bookseller reclining in a rainbow striped deckchair … or did I just imagine that bit? Anyway, it could have been the best paragraph ever written for all you know because due to our dodgy wifi and me forgetting to press save, it’s gone into the ether and the temptation to just say sod it, I’ll have an early bath, is strong but I’m been determined to “create a habit” as described in Bec Evens & Chris Smith, Written, How to Keep Writing and Build a Habit That Lasts, set a timer and lit a scented candle so I’m here for an hour, no excuses!
The books I’d chosen for my dangerously sticky crumpety nest were partly inspired by my chronic nostalgia (I spent some of last month re-reading and googling the real life stories behind Marguerite Henry’s, Misty of Chincoteague books, which I’d loved since I was about 8) and partly by @pony.books on Instagram who had recommended Rumer Godden’s , Greengage Summer and hooked me on her writing. An Episode of Sparrows was wonderful, a kind of gritty, inner city, Secret Garden which could have been written last week instead of 1955 since it ticked all those fashionable contemporary boxes – nature writing, childhood resilience and diversity. I remember watching Kizzy (Rumer Godden’s, The Diddakoi ) when I was small and also Follyfoot based on a Monica Dickens book so I thought I’d giver her another go. Anyway, I’m really digging deep into the sense of security and escapism that children’s books, especially ones from your own childhood, can bring and I wonder which my own children would chose to re-read in their 50’s!
Ok, the alarm went off on my phone just then which means I’ve been here an hour and still not ready to press publish, I’m going to wait until I can hear the washing machine do its final spin instead. That’s enough about books anyway, except for the one I’m meant to be writing! With the deadline of May 1st fast approaching it seems as though I keep remembering more information that I need to include and the fact is when you’re writing about an artistic process you’re always learning or being stumped by something you don’t know the answer to but will almost certainly get asked. Since my very focussed week at the beginning of January I’ve drifted a bit and the next time I set my timer it must be to get on with it.
I’m not sure it’s a good excuse but the need to make stuff, like the mini edition of hare prints, to earn money has definitely been a distraction. Whenever I’m making stuff I feel like I should be working on the projects for the book and vice versa. Everything is designed to distract isn’t it, we should really feel pleased if we get anything done at all when all the screens are tugging at us for a bit more scrolling. Would you go back to life pre smart phones if you could?
I’m going to leave this now because I want to rest my eyes and look at one of those ancient paperbacks instead and I don’t want to get too precious about these posts and end up doing nothing. If I hadn’t had to re-do the first bit I’d have told you about the light coming back and the herons along the A66, the green shoots I saw today emerging from the oily, black mud at Silver Meadow and the walk in a rainforest full of miniature worlds, mossy trolls and not quite enough new trees? I’d tell you about our maiden voyage in the new canoe and how I always pretend I’m Waterhouse’s Lady of Shallot but in reality I look more like Captain Pugwash. Maybe next time, I can hear the spin cycle and it’s time for another cup of tea.
WITCHMOUNTAIN 