So there was this Creative Writing MA. Actually there was that MA, and then there was this MA. What I did. Two in a row, for complicated reasons. And I loved them both. Oh, and I won an award for one of them too. I’m pretty proud of that.
And now there is the novel which I write and I write and I write, and it unravels at about the same rate as it coalesces. Like knitting at one end of a garment whilst a slo-mo demon Andrex puppy runs off with a loose thread at the other. And every now and again, I wonder, as you might about a river or a human being after seven years of cell regeneration, every now and then I wonder if this now novel thing is the same as that then novel thing. Let’s say it is. Let’s say that contiguity is identity. I think that’s best.
And then there are the various lovely clients who are helping me to fund the writing of the novel and to pay the many sudden bills that weren’t sudden at all, but which I apparently only just noticed. And letting me write code which I like to do.
And sleep is a waste of time anyway.
How about you?
Oh yes, also, if you like to read writing about literature you should check out Kit Coldstream’s blog which is excellent.
