Vive la difference.


I'll be pushing midnight again tonight. This has been a screwed up week but it's kept functioning at least. It's striking how much administrative stuff there is to do with the writing life. It feels like those early days of motor vehicles, when one man had the joy of cruising along in his new horseless carriage, but another had to run in front waving a red flad. The writer part of me sits high on the leather upholstery and enjoys the driving. This week was a red flag week. I've been running ahead, announcing myself to the world.

Creativity did get a look in ... I wrote a ten minute film for the Film Council's new project, looking for writers to transfer their skills into English film comedy. Last night's game was sending off a proposal for South East Arts' writer in residence programme, a week in some architectural space in their area. Every day I trot along to the post office with some new sheme in an envelope, albeit perhaps simply a story being mailed out.

But tomorrow morning the builder and electrician arrive at eight, and they can wave us off as we head for France. Already my head is scheming with what I might do when I get there, but one thing I know of old. This writing head of mine is suddenly freed into new ideas as it crosses the English channel. Vive la France. Vive la difference.

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