Some say it may be a little premature to emerge after the winter. There’s a pretty cold wind out there and some arctic temperatures are forecast for the coming week. However, the snow’s melted here, and the fields look more verdant than ever. Oh, and the snowdrops are showing off in the garden.
So, it sort of gives me the idea of fetching that metaphorical broom and sweeping out a few cobwebs. In any case, I’m taking a rest from doing proper work, and giving myself a little (balefully, unpaid) holiday. All in the line of duty, I might add. Because, the older I become, the more smitten I am with language. And I’m not talking about my usual colourful array of vocabulary as I step out of the front door and am practically knocked off my feet by a tempest. Which, incidentally, sets me wondering if God’s got the Dyson set to super-turbo, as leaves, twigs, branches, coal bucket, bunker, even the oil-tank, all disappear past my ears in the same direction across the garden. Or at least, I would wonder that, if I believed in him.
No. I’m talking English Usage here, not to mention my love of the European languages, albeit my ability, with the timorous exception of French, rates equivalent to a six month old baby. So I’m looking forward to reviewing Sampo: Headed Further North by Bob Beagrie and Andy Willoughby. Also, doing an editorial read on a dear friend’s novel, about which an agent is almost enthusiastic. Plus ploughing forward (though the field might still be a bit soggy) on the plotting of my latest novel. In addition, there’s this “little thing” that I simply have to write, which began as a small idea and appears to have the breeding capability of salmonella enterica and is now taking over my brain… And if all that wasn’t enough, I’m just organising a serious airing of my Poetry Pamphlet, Taking Responsibility for the Moon (next date February 25th, 7 pm at the Whitby Deli) ).
When will I have time to sleep?