It may have been gung ho of me to say I was coming down to Cornwall to write a novel. There’s a lot else going on. A lot else to pay attention to. Beaches, the pretty granite town. A lot of reading to enjoy and watching my boy play. He’s beginning to crawl, has managed to clear the ground, and he’s off — backwards! The harder he tries to approach the object of his interest, the further from it he is propelled. Apparently this is quite common.
I have been working on the novel, and the first chapter is coming to life, but as soon as I start calculating how quickly I can complete a draft at this rate of words per day… my heart goes out of it. This will be a slow burn, and should be, if it’s to be worth reading. I’m also working on a long poem that’s currently 260 odd lines. So, I don’t want to pursue the novel too hastily at the expense of other things. Life won’t be any better when it’s done, it’ll just be done. Might as well enjoy the process.