Island Life, Word Birds & Process

In the aftermath of Epic Editing, a few days in a state of limbo seemed like a plan. With nothing urgent to crack on with I allowed myself to land, consider the accumulated muddle in my flat, admire the dust; look for a new set of directions.

I have a date with the Llandeilo Literary Festival next weekend & have been gathering the threads for my role as moderator on one of the panels. Otherwise – writing wise – apart from on-going note taking for books 3 & 4, I was at a bit of a loose end. Yesterday I decided to take myself off to a beach – by myself – to potter & ponder, trail along the sand, clamber over rocks like an elderly Brontë* on a day out to the seaside. (I don’t like jeans, preferring frocks; it’s amazing what you can get done in a skirt & sneakers…)

I drove north, to the seaside town of Aberaeron & the beach on the southern side of the harbour.

It’s less populated than the one to the north & like the beach in Snow Sisters, hardly anyone goes there.

Snapping the book shut and shoving it in her pocket, she was about to go down to the stile and onto the beach when she spotted a figure, close to the cliff near the stone dragon. No one came to this end of the beach. It was a dead end and didn’t lead anywhere.
   The tide surged across the sand, closing in; leaving only a narrow strip of shingle to walk on. Ducking low, Verity scrambled down to the stile, peeked over the ledge and saw him. Tall and dark-haired, wearing a jacket with the collar turned up, his hands thrust into deep pockets.
   A tall man in a dark coat…

This location is based on another beach I know well, also situated at the southern end of a long strand made of sand & pebbles intersected by a harbour. To the west, across the bay, lies Ireland & my ancestors.

A boat appeared on the horizon, a flash of a distant sail.
   Meredith shaded her eyes. ‘Where does the sea end?’  
   ‘Ireland.’
   ‘Imagine if you were in a boat and you went on forever, not getting anywhere. Just rowed and rowed in your little boat.’
   Verity shivered. ‘Or swam.’

Quite. Much as I love to swim, I can’t imagine swimming to Ireland…

As an Air sign, the direction I most identify with is east. It’s the place of beginnings, where ideas are conjured & possibilities emerge. That’ll be the copy-edits proper then, the proofing & so forth. And a new cover. A new book!

I don’t do even numbers, so here’s a third snippet.

It’s the opening line…

My name is Angharad and I am not mad.

*No comparison to any Brontë sister is implied.