Hubby has banished me from the kitchen as he prepares dinner for a hungry family. He promises that the table will be weighed down with good food in a little over an hour or so, hopefully less than an hour. I am famished! Curried potatoes, his speciality, will grace our plates and Connemara lamb that has been marinating for a few hours in rosemary and garlic and lemon juice and olive oil, a dash of honey, will be skewered into kebabs and grilled on the BBQ. It has been a good day. I did some writing for the radio, five scripts that I plan on emailing tomorrow morning, with a fresh review of them before I do. The novel is still alive with me but I don't know if this is a typical problem but I feel that I have written the entire content in twenty pages. I feel like a child relating an event, you know what I mean, the way it all comes out in one breathless rush e.g.;
Mom we were in the zoo and we saw an elephant and then a man dropped his icecream cone and it melted in the sun and Daddy laughed and then the man who dropped his cone looked angry at Daddy and after that we went to the aviary and saw a parrot and then we got the bus home and had dinner and after that I read my favourite fairy tale book and went to bed. The end!!!
I know it is only a draft, obviously the above example is not my novel, ha and I probably will in time review and break each piece down into smaller increments and ''flesh'' each one out. Right!? I don't want to inhibit my flow by getting into feeling that what I am doing is wrong.
I booked a few days in Spain this afternoon. I cannot wait to see the true blue of the sea and eat Paella underneath a brightly coloured parasol. To spread my toes in the sand and write while being toasted by a warm sun. To listen to a babble of wonderful accents waft up to my open shuttered room at night and hear some guitar drift lazily in the air. It is my gift to all of us. We are tired. Tired after the winter and tired with the weather, even though it is late May, it is unpredictable and moody. We are tired of hearing about the abuse that has surfaced from the treatment that religious orders delivered to doomed children in the horrific institutions that can only be called concentration camps. I baulk at the media calling the children (now grown adults)survivors, I don't understand why they are not called victims.
So I am tired and that is not to say that I do not love my life. I do. It is, for the most part, a good one, full of variety and stimulation and freedom. I am blessed and I cherish everything that I have the good fortune to be able to do. But still, I look forward to a break in Spain, to a wonderful glass of Rioja or two, a plate of Tapas and some precious valuable time with my family. Another chance to get to know them, all over again.