God, this year’s dragging. Ineffably it moves away from the darkness, the solstice, yet paradoxically we move through cold and wet and bitterness. These are the Dead Months till the light returns. And what have we done? Very little.
End of term saw me so exhausted that once the hullaballoo of Christmas was over all energy drained from my body and the rest of the holidays saw me flat out in my chair watching documentaries about greek drama and the classical world.
After reading the last four chapters of Dragon’s Wood I have concluded that the story is drowning in piffling detail, but any attempt to correct that was blighted by lack of energy. See above. However in the last few days before the evil of term began I managed to draft a few pages about Jacks sniffing around le petite chateau before going off in search of Margueritte. I am trying to return to the main events, of which I can see strung before me, like ionic columns holding up a frieze. And I can see how they fall into place to make the story. I must avoid the ephemera.
The Dead Months. I always feel low at this time if year, yet I raise up my eyes with hope. Through the darkness of winter a voice called out to me across the road. It was Simon, currently composer in residence at a London theatre. We worked in TIE many years ago and we bump into each other once a term or so. I told him of Lights Over Sheel in the summer, and he crossed the road to sing its praises. I was taken aback, for he is a man of keen discernment. He also spotted many typos…
…oh, and happy New Year!
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