Day 131 of #ayearofwriting and it is often hard to balance family, work and writing but as a writer you have to be a little selfish, set aside time to write, even if it is in a corner of a wedding reception. Writers like all people have many masks, and we have dilemmas too, more about that this evening.
Day 132 of #ayearofwriting and ghosts come out to play, leaking from Saul’s dreams into the daylight.
Day 133 of #ayearofwriting and in this draft I am honing and clearing away things that will bring nothing to the story but now I have the reason for Saul’s betrayal, the thing that loses him his son and wife. Like Eve, the blame is firmly placed at his wife’s feet but as the reality reveals, he did not have to do it and he did it for his own selfish reasons that had nothing to do with temptation. A hunting Saul will go, the very thing that Martha fears.
My sight is nawthen more then fog that moves across tha hills. I hear tha cicadas, my boy, out theer, a dance of fat wings amongst tha grass that flit past thin boned men who chop tha trees, who pull tha wood wed moans an creaking bones. I aupen tha window so I can hear them, tha cicadas aar nawthen but jumped up grasshoppers, coming in wed tha heat. Remember how I tould you that tha grasshopper cocks a snoot at tha ant. I lean out tha window an if anyone is out in tha rain they will see a blind fool getting touched by God. Tha rain feels good on my cheeks, it runs through my beard an tha sound it makes as it drips onto tha sill pulls me down into tha wash of low river renning through me. I slip as easily as a baby into tha tide an tha arms of tha sea. I see here, caught in tha ebb an flow of my memories. I am at a window but I see a sail abew me, billowing through what is left of Bideford. I move my coracle betwix crumbling rooftops which lounge abew tha tide line. At Torridge bog, tha bottom of my boat grates along tha spines of monsters that sleep theer in tha mud. I drop anchor at tha church on tha mount, ropes still trail in tha ebb of tha tide from her stone work. Crenulations. I learnt it from a man I met afore, catching eels, he points to what remains of tha church abew tha water line an sayst tha word, Cren-U-Late-shons. He offers me a bed fer tha night. I see his nets aar empty an his bones hold up his clothes. I sail on, tha man hollin to me to stay until I lose him in tha reeds. Theer no sign of him this time. A bog oak turns under tha boat, it stirs up tha ded in tha silt an tha grasshopper sings of wild fields, ded sheep, an tha bodies at St Mary’s on tha mount which swing to tha hymns of those huddled inside aginst tha rising tide; singing to tha ded that God will saave them. Tha cicadas sing that song too.