No writing again today. I find it impossible to write when other things are going on - like family staying. It doesn't matter. Anyway, it's kind of nice holding in that frustration of not getting pen to paper and letting the anticipation of having time to write again grow. It makes it all the sweeter when it does arrive. Delayed gratification. Put it down to the catholic in me.
I have accepted a position offered to me yesterday as support teacher at an early childhood centre. I am panicking a little, knowing that the time I've had to write in the past two months will disappear in three weeks once I start the job. But at the risk of sounding crass, we need the money.
The hours are 8.00 am to 1.30 pm, which should give me a bit of leeway in the afternoons for writing. And to be quite honest, on any days I do set aside solely for writing, I often don't start until after lunch. The earliest I ever seem to be able to sit down to write is 11.00am. Afternoons appear to be my natural preference. Or at night - I have been known to write through to about 3.00 am many times.
I finished Carolyn McCurdie's excellent book called 'The Unquiet'. Very well-written in a restrained, believable style. There is a natural tone to the book which sets up a nice tension between the believable and the fantastic. A lesser writer could easily hash it up, but in Carolyn's capable hands the story of planets and countries disappearing, with the subsequent rescue of New Zealand and consequently Earth and Pluto by two kiwi kids, is very plausible. She has some exquisite descriptions as well.
Look out for more from this writer. An impressive first children's novel. I am now reading Katherine Paterson's 'Bridge to
Terabithia'. It will be interesting to see how it stacks up against Carolyn's book! (Knowing Carolyn of course could make me a little biased.)
I am a backslidden poetry reader. I have read very little poetry so far this year, preferring to read novels, murder mysteries and childrens' books. However for the sake of my second book, at present a fragile draft of a thing, I believe it has become imperative. I need to get back into some serious poetry reading. It's like training for an event, or breathing life into something that lags. It is time to "Lift those hairy legs!"as a friend of mine infamously, and to her enduring embarrassment, shouted out when walking a little behind someone she mistook to be one of her friends. That incident happened thirty years ago now but has proved a handy command for those times when I've needed to spur myself on. Like now. (Thanks P.!)