Having been for the last little while cooped up with a chest infection, I have only been able to glimpse the Spring through windows, or catch it on slightly laborious walks to work. I’m now much on the mend and craving the outdoors – light, the smell of the sea and plants growing. Much is work these days, quietly tapping away the prescribed 500 words. Or else reading, which I love, but. I want to be out there.
This post really doesn’t help curb the feeling. Let me do everything – yes, even a cycling tour, even when I cannot cycle well at all. A 20 kilometre wobble along a coastal road sounds just the thing right now. Or to be up in a helicopter looking at bright shining landscapes. Or in a sea kayak, bumping along past the rocks where the seals are sunning themselves.
I’m not sure if I’ll get a chance for this, this year. But there will be other things. Yesterday, a lovely meeting and bookshop crawl with a poet and her husband, on a trip from the states. A wedding in America in less than a month. A short trip down to Bristol to be literary & sophisticated with my friend G, the month after that.
For now though, suspended time in which there are mostly the words and awaiting emails. The thing they don’t tell you about being a writer is that patience and imaginative flights of fancy sit uneasily together and often don’t dwell in the same house. But the work is a kind of dreaming too. Sometimes lucid, sometimes with one eye to the blue air beyond the window frame. Tap tap tap.