I’m mid-novel at the moment and that means my room (and large chunks of the house) are strewn with cairns of what might be mistaken for rubble, but are in fact the trail of things I’ve been considering one minute, taking in, then putting down as I go off to examine something else in the seemingly never-ending fugue of telling a story. Sucking in all the things, all the inspiration, all the ideas, putting them in the mental percolator – and in the process becoming a bit absent-minded (I wrote that as assbent-minded, so I rest my case).
Stuff piles up. I forget to put stuff away. The dogs are under daily threat of an avalanche of clean-but-unfolded and definitely not-put-away clothes if they brush by the stacks too closely. I forget things I put “just over there” in the genuine belief I would be back in just one minute. The story pushes the other stuff out. The story becomes all. I am grateful for my ever-patient and beloved housemates who shrug and go “Ah, writer. What ya gonna do?”
One of the awesome things about this, however, is all the surprises you get when you find that stuff again. For instance, Aimée Lindorff gave me this adorable box for my birthday just over a month ago. I went through it then and thought it was wonderful, then said “I’ll examine it in more detail later”, coz we were in the middle of a dinner party with other friends and my rudeness does know some bounds.
And I put it on a shelf.
And yeah, you got it.
I forgot to go back for it.
But this morning as I fought my way past a skyscraper of washing, I spied it on the bookshelf. And I took it down. And I re-read all these gorgeous things. Thanks, Aims!! <3 <3
And I am so overwhelmed with gratitude for all the people in my life, for their patience and kindness and support and their humour.
And for the fact that Aimée knows how much I love shiny things, so that this looks a wee bit like Oxford Street the day after Mardi Gras (slightly less sequins and fewer flaccid feathers).
And I have had another of those moments like the one a couple of months ago when I was cooking, waiting for the boys to come home, I had music playing, and I was having one of my rare indulgences in the Laphroaig bottle, and I just thought “I’m happy. Better yet, I’m content.” I was in a good place. I am in a good place.
Those moments have been rare.
But I recognise them when I get them, and I am grateful for them.
