Monday, 15 February 2016
Far too much time has elapsed since I ventured into the blogosphere. Injury and illness led to extended housebound periods and a long lapse into reflection. I could read, and read I did, but to write evaded me. As the poet, Nan Shepherd, said:
'One reaches these dumb places in life. I suppose there's nothing for it but to go on living , Speech may come. Or it may not. And if it doesn't I suppose one just hasd to be content to be dumb. At least not shout for the mere sake of making a noise.'
Some new ventures were suspended as I gently found my way back into the world and other new ventures launched. I'm working and writing again, the fiction is on hold while I complete a project for the Story Terrace,
A biography for a client who is neither celebrity nor star, but an ordinary life with extraordinary moments. We all have a story to tell. I've been re-reading biographies, the excellent, verbose Clive James, Unreliable Memoirs, and the moving M Train by Patti Smith,