‘Incident on the Line’ is finished, the script about to be prepared and sent for publication. The blurb, the dedication are ready too; there is a photo idea for the cover merely waiting for the lettering. So what do I do now?
I’ve been writing a few short stories over the summer, recently completed one taken from an idea on a holiday in France. I consider writing them a way of keeping ‘my hand in’ which is a pretty fatuous way to express the extreme skill needed to write something worthy in this paricular genre. Reading the Wordsworth edition of ‘The Collected Stories of Katherine Mansfield’ I am in awe. Her wit, her ability with language, the subtle satire and the incite into the human pschye is amazing. It is a tragedy that she died so young and remarkable that she wrote so much in that short life. As always reading other authors is a continuous education.
There are no more excuses for putting off the writing of the next novel. Some ideas are there, some research, notes made, characters beginning to come to life but I know that it is not until I begin to put words on a page that anything happens. A greenhouse shattered, Gina and Ivan, elderly (a word I hate and so will they) and all of what went before.
The paintings of Eric Ravilious still haunt me, greenhouses in particular; they featured in ‘The Angel Child’, a place of fertility and where Angela buried her beloved father.
My ‘greenhouse’ was originally designed and built to be a writing retreat. Created from recycled wood and windows, it has the appearance of a home for folk tales. However it is also needed as a place for garden tools, over wintering of tender plants, the storage of pots and potions. It has been named ‘the white house’ and its beauty is far greater than the normal greenhouse. It has far more in common with those fine Victorian hothouses.
From the picture it seems to be sliding away at a angle, quaint but untrue, merely the photographer’s lack of skill.