A writer's life for me.

At least for the five minutes when
a) you've just finished writing a new book,
b) you're on holiday, and the view looks like this,
c) the prospect of four rewrites of a) seems a long way off.

A Translation As Promised

I wrote an introduction to what I wanted to say - then crossed it out. Yet, still I wish
that before the darkness closes over me
the last that is seen of me is a clutched fist among the waterlilies
and the last that is heard is a word
of bubbles from the deep.
Gunnar Ekelöf - Among Waterlilies

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Harmony House

Home to the friendliest book festival in the UK. Thanks to Paula and Alistair.

100 miles North of the Arctic Circle

Doing research for the next book...

Hello, and goodbye

I can't think of a better way to start a blog than with some gloomy Swedish poetry.

Jag har skrivit en inledning till vad jag skulle ha sagt

men jag har strukit den - Dock önskar jag

att innan mörkret slår samman over mig

det sista som syns av mig

skall vara en knuten näve bland näckrosor

och det sista som hörs ett ord av bubblor

från botten.

I know it requires a translation, but you can get some of the words: inledning; an introduction, mörkret; murk or the darkness,  bubblor; yes, bubbles. It's just wonderful how languages carry the imprint of their ancestors in this way. The poem itself is about yes, you guessed it, death.

Next time I come back here I'll bring the translation, too. That would be less irritating, would it not.