This week, I have been going to new places with both writing and exploring the countryside for inspiration, and one feeds into the other. It’s a circular thing in fact; I write a bit, I go out and see or hear something that inspires me, I write about it, regardless of whether it will fit into the novel or not, and then I go looking for something will.
This week’s finds:
- Two red kites took off and soared above me so close I felt their wingspan, focused only on what they could glean from a newly ploughed and sown field. I stopped dead to watch them, entranced.
- A fox walked calmly along the road parallel to me late at night, trotting casually, occasionally glancing back at me. Unafraid, it slid between parked cars, investigating the remains of people’s fried chicken, a hissing cat, my dog’s snarling, excited interest.
- Finding a new place; a ditch made in pre-Roman times that goes on forever, a canopy of tall trees thrusting into the light, competing for space, their ancient gnarly trunks and boughs entwined, a sacred and beautiful place.
- Writing a very difficult section about something painful, which was made easier by numbers 1-3 above.
- Two small foals in a field, nibbling each other’s backs contentedly.
- More difficult writing, helped by the foals, and by chunking the writing into 30 minute segments, which made it more bearable. Lots of breaks, do something else, come back to writing with a new thought. It’s only taken me 30 years to realise that I don’t have to write for hours at a time – I get more quality (I hope) from these short bursts and then want to do more, rather than expecting I will write reams in hours and being disappointed.
