And more rain again and again and again. It hasn't dampened my spirits though and the writing is getting aggressive so much so that the poems I'm working on are cowering in the binding whilst a short story has been unleashed. It was the train journey on Friday that clinched it, my face and shoulder squashed against the window of the overcrowded carriage surfing its way to Plymouth. I just managed to crook my arm into an awkward writing position and scribbled away - the sentences on such a tilt I feared they would slide off the page and I'd loose them under my seat.
Story is safe and dry; five pages of something anyway which I will smarten up, but not too much. I think that all my work has raggy edges: whether the most delicate torn chiffon or a heavy tear across roughed up hessian the frayed strands wave about.
Took my bestest friend to see The Old Press Gallery on Saturday, he just happens to be my husband too; we have come up with the idea of trying out a three dimensional layout plan for the pieces in the exhibition, (think Grand Design architect style). This will enable everyone involved to have a hand in the visual impact process. Still waiting for news from the tree surgeon on my bark pieces, with all this wet weather I think we'll need a dry spell for this tricky separation process.
Next phase is lots of lists...sherry.....laughter
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