Out of the mouths of babes . . .
I was filing in my office tonight and came across a poem that my friend Rebecca sent me when The Stumpwork Robe was released. It was written by her daughter Rachel a number of years ago, when Rachel was only ten.
I was filing in my office tonight and came across a poem that my friend Rebecca sent me when The Stumpwork Robe was released. It was written by her daughter Rachel a number of years ago, when Rachel was only ten.
Should be writing and will, in a minute after last night’s happy journey forward on the re-write, but this has been today so far.
It’s raining. About to get a cold change. Horse’s rugs had to be changed from lightweight to heavyweight. Sheepdogs had to be let out for a run.
I barely slept. I sat up high on the cot despite the good sheets and a finely woven blanket. My head rested against the walls and I curled my arms around my knees and stared into the dark.
' embers which cracked and sparked . . . '
I read a blog last week (I wish I could remember who, because it was good) about how often real life interferes with best laid plans for adding a few thousand words to the WIP. Today was one of those days for me. 
Tomorrow at our farm, it’s lamb-marking day. Essentially that means all the lambs are vaccinated for deadly diseases and the ram lambs are neutered. So today my husband and I moved the ewes and lambs about a kilometre down the stocklane from where they were grazing.
I’m in the process of re-jigging my manuscript. 
It came back from the editorial consultancy a week ago with the comment that they felt I should delay one of the two crisis points in the novel until the almost bitter end. This crisis happens at the about the 77,000 word mark of a 99,000 word novel.
I went to a book-launch tonight. Given that I live in an island region of Australia, in a little town, it was so rewarding to attend the launch of new historical fiction title by internationally acclaimed writer, Posie Graeme-Evans. And the book is The Dressmaker. 
This is for all my Twitter and Spooks friends:
As I work this week, music seems to be striking chords with me. If I was seriously intent on sinking myself in my fantasy world, I suspect a cross between Celtic, Gregorian and melodic instrumental should be accompanying me.
Really short post today and with thanks to Louise Saunders on Mornings ABC 936 for reminding me of this song from Billy Thorpe in 1975 and which shall be my anthem! For all those people heading into winter . . . summer in Oz hasn’t changed in 35 years! Except for the SPF’s.
Things that are amusing:
Joining Twitter. Fun in 140 characters, that is assuming one is prepared to leave one’s real persona behind. @Lucas_North’s,
@Lucas_North
@MalcolmWJ’s, @Dimitri_MI5’s and @SirHJPierce’s behaviour on Twitter. Making macaroons without learning how to use a piping bag first. Looking at self in mirror after cane blind has fallen and hit the bridge of the nose. Having funny shared thoughts with MG. The younger dog showing off by having a giant swim at the beach. Watching the parking-meter man trying to book me when I had beaten him to the meter by a sucked in half-breath. The lambs . . . cheeky and very cocky because they have made it!
Lambing is finished . . .
Things that aren’t:
The loss of privacy at university. The sick humour of the internet and You-Tube. The loss of a life.
Looking at self in the mirror after the blind fell on my nose and seeing the blood. The loss of a ewe birthing triplets . . . mother and babies died. The northwest wind: who was it on Twitter who said ‘the wuthering wind is snapping at the corners of the house.’ Rudeness . . . of parking-meter men. Saint Kilda losing the Grand Final. SSAE in the mail. The chance that I will have to pull out of the Dogs’ Home until hand and ankle fully repair. I have only been back two weeks.
On this first week of October, we can be hopeful. Winter is over in this far-flung little outpost of the Southern hemisphere called Tasmania. The lambing has finished. My garden rewards me.
My garden rewards me . . .
The boatshed is being framed up. The manuscript has attention from a major editorial agency O/S . . . free of charge. I shopped for clothes today and bought capri jeans, shorts and two polo-shirts in less than 10 minutes. Such things rarely happen. It’s time to think about the myriad family birthdays. To enjoy a major book launch on Thursday night. To wish my son and his partner safe-travelling as they leave for three weeks holiday in Samoa.
It’s heartwarming that sixty dogs were adopted from the Dog’s Home in the month of September. It has been a week of enjoying the generosity of overseas friends and of realising that even though an SSAE arrived in the mail, better things await. And that the world has joined together to condemn those students at Rutgers University.
I hated our time in Rouen.
'I hated our time in Rouen . . . '
My mare cast a shoe a league before the town and I was forced to lead her and thus we arrived, both of us, footsore and tired. Guy offered me his gelding, but I would not ride. Khazia had carried me unstintingly, it was the least I could do to walk beside her as she suffered a bruised sole. Guy dismounted and led his horse, and we barely spoke, but each time his arm rubbed against mine butterflies danced in my belly.