If I believed in signs, and sometimes I believe in signs, I’d say that something is coming to a head. May is like that, summer is bursting in at every available moment – bully, the overweight sister to April.
I’ve had some strange dreams lately. I’ve written down words and found them again, in other places. That time I read American Gods whilst playing Magnetic Fields, over and over, then read how Gaiman listened to the same songs whilst writing it.
Books have a way of getting in, like that. They have avenues.
I’m about to start a writing course because I haven’t been writing much and I need to write, but I also need to stop worrying so much about the kind of perfect I don’t know how to reach.
I’ve been reading Carson, which is entirely bad for this (she is that kind of perfect). She is also the kind of writing that thuds into you and you find yourself winded and unable not to respond.
These were the words: ‘Try Again. Fail again. Fail Better’
Yesterday on the bus, we stopped long enough on a stretch of road lined with trees, and our window was crammed with cherry blossoms. They were smashed against the glass and my kids pressed their noses to the window in conversation with the whole scene. It’s this shade of deep pink – blush, coy, wild, soft and frothing, that I remember staring at when I walked to school, and now, those same blossoms have found their way in to places hard to get to.