As part of the regular gardening blog hop put up by The Propagator, my Six for Saturday are growing in our little matchbox garden in the city. I mentioned once before in another post, that this garden is only three and half years old and was built from scratch. (See Matchbox Gardens)
I’m sure you know that I’m having a break from writing hist.fict.
Six on Saturday is part of a blog hop that happens with The Propagator, a garden blog I enjoy.
A full day in the garden today and where I found my six. Not always successes either…
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.
Such a fascinating subject in The Guardian. Should we delve into authors’ lives?
It’s so relevant in this quick-to-judge society in which we live.
The other day, I was surprised to hear someone refer to me historically as ‘the weather girl’ and as it has always done, it frustrated me. That my small career on TV and radio was reduced to that description with its cliched connotations. You know the sort I mean – blonde bimbo, plastic fantastic and with no concept of how weather really works. I know – silly of me to get wangled about the term, but there you go.
And so my last (for the moment) historical fiction novel is now doing its satellite thing across the reading universe and another novel is in construction phase.
Or should that be the ‘imaginating’ phase or the ‘jotting and plotting’ phase?
