Writers At Work

Cloud has rolled in across the Pacific to roll up the shoreline and over this house. It makes a beautiful silhouette of the pine trees outside, and helps turn me inward. Writing again - Cromozone moves forward in its weird way. My shoulder's been out of joint for a week. Writing makes me feel good again. Moved the book forward through a couple more scenes.

Different perspectives at play in the house...

James, my partner, put pen to paper to start his own first novel today. A top class lawyer, a writer of canonical spiritual texts, twinning this job with running an international neuroscience institute, he does things in a different way. For months now he's been filling notebooks with characters, plot strands and ideas, developing a whole universe. His first novel looks like being the first in a series of five or six. Waking this morning, descriptions of characters were in his head. So he's started.

1300 longhand words, and how he's strolling about the house singing. Nothing makes him happier than writing, he's never given himself so much license to have fun as this.

It's great. I've been angling since we first met to bring him to this condition.

Meanwhile I'm grumpy. My novel's bleak and getting bleaker. My characters struggle on and I know the precipice they're heading for. It takes a while to shake the mood after writing.

The fog's lifted though. Time to close the working day with a walk up the hill into the redwoods, then a stroll back down with the Pacific spread wide and blue before us. Crack open a bottle on the deck afterwards and celebrate James's fledgling career as seals bark from below.