This time last year I was working on the first draft of a novel in sea-side isolation. It was wonderful. And I came away with a complete first draft (give or take a few thousand words) and a head full of good intentions for the year to come.
Since then we’ve moved house and gone through a year of normal-life routines. And I’m still working, ever-so-slowly, on my second draft. Luckily, I’ve come far enough in this project not to give up; luckily, I still believe in this idea. And so this Easter holiday I’ve crammed all my distracting household jobs into the first couple of days, and I’m readying myself to plough through the next stage of redrafts.
I will try to remember how timeless life became last Easter with its incredible sunsets and roaring coastline. I will close my door and remember the sound of the sea against the garden wall. I will write.