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Island Life, Word Birds & Process
There are mornings when it’s as if I ordered the mist. Oh, the smother of it – draped like adornment left over from a Fäe wedding! Concealing & tricksy too: time, at the beck & call of Daylight Saving, catching me unawares. (I’m a winter person – I like the dark.) Last night I was ready for it – only not ready enough it seems – this morning finds me trailing.
My Irish mother was a great one for playing with language. It was she who defied Latin & came up with the notion of time ‘fidgeting’ which to this day I approve of. Time, for a writer, is often a luxury & even for me – retired from the day job – storytelling gets done between other commitments. Waking up & finding I’d lost an hour reminded me how time is never static & not always compliant.
One of the things I do in the morning – because I can – is write in bed. I read a bit, over the first cup of tea, but more often than not set the book aside in favour of the notebook & the pencil. My brain is alive in the morning & I love writing by hand. And I have a cat on Cat Time which means early mornings absolutely are a thing. (I’m no owl, so early nights are by & large a given too.)
I’ve reset the clocks & mentally reset the body one. It’s Sunday – Withering Heights sits in the mist, adrift & rather lovely, paying no regard to time. And I have notes.
Onward & sideways. (Also my mother.)
Making it up as I go along 