Summer

Summer

Well, hello again! Remember me? Yes, I know it’s been a while.

I knew summer was coming, as it did last year and the years before that, so why didn’t I prepare meal rotas, online deliveries and continuous activities in advance? Why, when I had the time, did I prioritise reading reports, and getting to end-of-term concerts and plays?

But in Norfolk last week, while the skies were often blue, the air was cool. Overnight, the edges of the tree in front of our window turned ocre. Autumn’s coming with its promise that this year I’ll perfect the after-school routine. The children will develop self-discipline and consistent consideration for each other. And I’ll make that courgette cake I’ve been thinking about for the last eleven years. Perhaps by next summer, my home will be so ordered and beautiful, other people will ask to come and write there.

And the laws of procrastination mean it’s been so easy to work on my novel. It has been a joyful escape rather than a discipline, partly because my fictional world is much better organised than my real one. My characters’ lives might be a mess, but they manage to keep their couches free of washing.

 

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Thirty-one extra people in the Lake District and a villain I now like

Thirty-one extra people in the Lake District and a villain I now like

Last week was special. I have seven younger siblings and as there are thirty-three husbands/wives/partners and children, it’s rare even those in the UK are all in the same place at once. Pretty much my whole family met in the Lake District to welcome my third sister and family who were visiting the UK from New Zealand. It was the first time most of us had seen them for six years. Some children had either to be introduced or re-introduced to each other. And yet, shared genes and heritage created an immediate shorthand. I’ve never had to explain one of my children to their cousins in the way I’ve needed to do to their friends. (Meeting my own first cousins a few weeks ago was a very similar experience.)

Thanks to another sister’s and brother-in-law’s organisation, there were nerf gun fights, party games and I sent my eleven-year-old son on the Via Ferrata. (As he was making his way there without me, I watched this on Youtube!)

As for my novel, I would say I’m fleshing out my world, but that’s a very active term. Ian McEwan described this point as ‘coming into focus’. (Who says I have to be a literary genius before I compare my process with his?) I’m asking questions and finding answers that convince and interest me. These may not reach the final product, but they will still improve it.

For instance, Jane has always been the nearest thing to a villain in my mind- bitter, disowning her own son- but this morning I realised how she’d got to that point. I think I like her.

Work-life balance would be a struggle if I had lots of work. This is not a complaint. Actually, I’m becoming increasingly relaxed about the ebb and flow of freelancing. The current ebb means I have time to prepare for next term, find things to do with the children over the summer, help my son relearn how to touch type, push him to learn some Spanish, write my current novel, submit my previous one and catch up on reading. And the reduction in stress means inspiration comes more easily. I suppose it’s the flip-side of the perennial working parent’s complaint- that you can never do everything as well as you want. When you don’t have to do everything, your performance improves.