Been up in the hills for long enough, time to escape to the warm flat in the middle of town for the winter. Spent most of the summer reading: two Junot Diaz collections, Drown and This Is How You Lose Her, both of which I loved; Wells Tower’s Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned (ditto), dipped into Edna O’Brien’s The Love Object and Flannery O’Connor’s Complete Stories (part of a recent prize from Faber that included the Diaz); did some vicarious travelling 70s style with Paul Theroux in The Great Railway Bazaar; worshipped the work of George Saunders (though having read most of his work, I do prefer his latest collection, Tenth of December. I also started the first Donna Tartt (The Secret History) and hope to finish her second, The Little Friend before Christmas as santa has promised me The Goldfinch.
I’ve not written as much over the summer, or rather I have written but haven’t finished anything to a point where I’m happy with it. Part of this is to do with all the reading I’ve been doing, I’ve been taking notes, and after (also) reading two volumes of The Paris Review Interviews (vols 2 &3), I can see a way of working with the writing I’ve done to make some sense of it!
I started yesterday. Dragged out my files, folders and notebooks and started reading through in a dispassionate way, wrote my way around one story that’s been occupying part of my head for a couple of years. This morning I still haven’t got a handle on what the story’s about but have identified some old drafts that should go IN THE BIN. So, making progress.