Little boxes...

Packing continues with minor interruptions along with bad news and good. Pretty much everyday life, in other words. It is an aspect of the paradox that is the writer’s life. Many people consider it a desirable life, yet I suspect that for many they have an unrealistic view of what goes on. Champagne for breakfast, chauffeur driven limos, long lunches with one’s agent and/or editor, literary soirées… Sorry. Not even for the successful ones (although they probably do see a bit of that, who knows there might even really be one out there who gets to hang out with the NYPD and solve cases). For the most part, however, the writing life means dragging your half-awake carcass from bed to keyboard, probably not changing along the way and then sitting in your spare room for hours on end suffering angst whilst fling irate birds at porcine adversaries (so I’ve heard).

All of which is just one side of the story. The other side is that you go places no one has ever been before, or if they have been there, the reports you bring back cast a whole new light (sometimes the eighth one in the spectrum) on things. Writers are explorers, adventurers, people who can, even if they are sitting in the middle of a huge pile of boxes that contain everything they own, create the most wonderful of places, characters, and events. And they conjure this out of the thinnest of air – true magicians.

Books read in May

The Longer Bodies – Gladys Mitchell

The Devil At Saxon Wall – Gladys Mitchell

I, Vampire – Jody Scott

A Crime In Holland – Georges Simenon [new tr]

A Delicate Truth – John le Carré

The Cat – Colette

Inside Mr Enderby – Anthony Burgess

Here Comes A Chopper – Gladys Mitchell

The Treasure Hunt – Andrea Camilleri

Enderby Outside – Anthony Burgess

The Clockwork Testament – Anthony Burgess

Moving along...

...slowly. 

Trying to work when you are packing everything away is difficult. Quite apart from living surrounded by boxes, it's the psychological disruption, knowing that any time you are going to want a particular book and having no idea which box it is in. And it's not even as if we were moving to a new place with more room and no neighbours walking overhead at six every morning. Still, we are getting a new kitchen, bathroom, and wiring out of it; and the new porch has already been fitted (just waiting for a storm now to give it a proper test).

I also managed to get out from behind the desk yesterday and zipped down to Wigtown. What a place. A book town. It's full of book shops. Stuffed with books. And the sun was shining. If I ever get to heaven (doubtful), that's what it will be like.

Surprisingly, I didn't go down there for the bookshops (although I may have wandered into one or two, judging by the little pile of fresh titles beside me here). I went to the 2nd Wigtown Writers' Gathering and met lots of writers and listened to lots of writers and had a day of nattering with writers. And we had a superb lunch laid on as well.

See. Told you it was heaven.

Books read in April

Chéri – Colette

The Last of Chéri – Colette

Gigi – Colette

echo’s Bones [short story] – Samuel Beckett

The Ripening Seed – Colette

The Carter of La Providence – Georges Simenon [new tr]

The Yellow Dog – Georges Simenon [new tr]

The Ides Of April – Lindsey Davis

Clochemerle – Gabriel Chevallier

Speedy Death – Gladys Mitchell

Night At The Crossroads – Georges Simenon [new tr]