A couple of weeks ago, I was asked the question ‘What is the power of fiction?’
My response was immediate.
‘Absolutely tremendous,’ I said.
‘But how?’ I was asked.
Another Saturday and rather troubling at how fast they come around because it means Christmas gets closer faster, and I haven’t cooked anything yet. The garden, my writing, and being a new grandparent all get in the way.
I’ve mentioned our Matchbox garden periodically. It’s a tiny garden that enables us to retreat to peace when we have to go to the city to stay.
I was reading some commentary on Facebook detailing people’s preference as readers and writers in respect of love scenes in novels, In this case romance novels. Do we like raw, flesh-toned intimacy with all the bells and whistles or do we prefer the subtler approach – the ‘less is more’ approach?
I’ve been privileged to walk through some very beautiful northern hemisphere gardens through this last northern summer via some wonderful garden blogs. It’s the kind of thing that sustains one through our own southern winter.
But we’re now well into spring. Daylight saving begins next week, and my little garden (only 3 and 3/4’s years old and which we built and grew from scratch) is starting to come into its own.
So for those who love tree and leaf, this is my garden today:
I’m having a go at writing two novels simultaneously. This is the kind of thing that UK writer Simon Turney does with consummate ease and copious cups of coffee. I am not that mad on coffee and the process does make me feel a tad schizoid.
Still, there we go…
House is tiny.
It’s a small dwelling that was put together in fits and starts, bits added as the original owners decided they could afford it. It’s quaint, every room is on a different level and the rooms are small, but it is so perfectly idiosyncratic and the place just spoke to us when it was put up for sale 31 years ago by the original owner.
We renovated six years ago and opted to remove the old wood-heater because we knew that in our old age, the last thing we wanted to be doing was carting wood and dealing with the ash, dust and mess that is a wood-burner, despite the obvious charm of flame and wood.