I have no words for you today. I emptied all the ones I had out of my head and onto the page. This might usually be a cause for gaudy celebration. But I am supposed to be editing. I am supposed to be cutting and polishing. I am supposed to be slaying darlings, so that the stage is littered with them, like the last scene in Hamlet.
Instead, I was up until after one last night putting on words. Thousands of the fuckers. And then I put on more again today.
Stop, stop, STOP, I bawl at myself, with my sensible hat on.
But without this new scene the thing makes no sense, says the voice in the stupid comedy hat. And you must explain this. And you must explicate that. And the fingers go tap tap tap and the thing grows terrifyingly big, mocking my puny plan.
The red mare, who knows nothing of words, except for ‘good girl’ and ‘breakfast’, canters up the hill and looks at the view. The view looks back. Please, please, says the sensible hat. No more words. No more.
We walk slowly home, on a loose rein, as the view folds up its tent and disappears from sight. And another idiot new scene unfurls itself in my head.
Just time for two pictures today, of my favourite mountain and my favourite dreamy face:
She has gone away into another world in that photograph. She is dreaming of something I cannot even guess at. She is guarding all her equine mystery.
She has had an idea for a novel.
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