Oh faithful reader, you will know the trauma of Day 12, and you will also have extrapolated that Day 13 involved interfacing with Public Transport. My assumption regarding that was that I would achieve very little writing at all for the second day running.
One of the underlying factors for the assumption, beyond being on a train was that I am trying to write the critical drawing room scene (it’s not in a drawing room, there is no Poirot, and no one is in tennis gear, but…). It’s difficult and scary, of course. I need it to work. At the moment I am trying to see whether character A can reach the door without falling over anything or having to shuffle past characters B-E in one of those embarrassing left-right-right-left dances that happen when you are all trying to move at the same time.
However, I am also experiencing another feeling, of not wanting it to end.
I’m making another assumption now, that your answer here will be yes. Rhetorically I ask: have you ever read a book and had the following experience?
“This is the best book ever! I can’t wait to find out what happens next. I must read until my eyes bleed, I have to know what is going on! Oh no, I’m nearly at the end. Then there will be no more Book. I don’t want to leave and go back to the cold world of so-called Reality where there are wolves and washing up and co-workers.”
So I slow down my reading rate. I might even go back and start the chapter again. I read slowe and slower until the final pages are almost in a different time zone. But eventually my unwilling gaze falls upon the final words and a little piece of my heart breaks off and is sealed int eh book as I close I for the last time. Sure I re-read it every Christmas, for old times’ sake, but it’s never quite the same as the first time. We have developed an understanding, the Book and I, but to be honest some of the excitement is gone. Iy has been replaced by other delights, the closeness and familiarity of an old friend, or woolly cardigan, something reliable and trustworthy and safe. That is also good, but oh for that spark…
Spark away, my dears, spend a day being sparky!
My own sparktistics, for the record, are 1977 (I remember – it was the Silver Jubilee and Virginia Wade won Wimbledon!) and 38765. Turns out I can write on a train after all.