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desperanceI have said before, I rarely talk about dreams: but every now and then...
I dreamed of a Welsh woman who figured out evolution and the nature of the earth's crust and planetary formation too, how the whole thing happened from little fireball to us; and she did this in the early years of Victoria, decades before Darwin. And she had a brother, a tiny brother, physically minute; and I was learning about her from an encyclopaedia [this is how I knew I was close to waking up now, because that's what happens, dreams turn from live-action to my reading them in books], and it was her entry so the brother only got the barest of mentions in the text, but it was an illustrated encyclopaedia and she had lived this quiet life in Wales figuring things out while he had gone for a soldier all over the world: so there was her life in the text and there was his in pictures, page after page of plates because he was famous being so small and soldierly and his portrait had been painted again and again with all the important people. And that was my dream.
And this is my nightmare, that my agent has asked me to cut the new book before she even finishes reading it. I have managed to bore my agent to the point of revulsion, she cannot bear to read any more. Ah, me.
Also, when I turned out yesterday's loaf onto the tray to bake it, it stuck entirely to the tea-towel so that I had to scrape the dough off with my fingers. The bread recovered magnificently in the oven - sourdough is amazingly resilient - and it may be the best loaf I've made so far, but even so. I am betrayed by my own linens. (Perhaps what I need is a proper linen-lined baker's proving basket? Ay, mi...)
Gosh, it's nearly noon already. What I say is, if those good people on Radio 4 are going to talk about the Silk Road, which falls very much into the ambit of Chaz-wants-to-write-a-book-about-it, then my listening to the radio is absolutely work; and if my work is listening to the radio, then I might as well do it in bed as anywhere else. That's what I say. *nods*
I dreamed of a Welsh woman who figured out evolution and the nature of the earth's crust and planetary formation too, how the whole thing happened from little fireball to us; and she did this in the early years of Victoria, decades before Darwin. And she had a brother, a tiny brother, physically minute; and I was learning about her from an encyclopaedia [this is how I knew I was close to waking up now, because that's what happens, dreams turn from live-action to my reading them in books], and it was her entry so the brother only got the barest of mentions in the text, but it was an illustrated encyclopaedia and she had lived this quiet life in Wales figuring things out while he had gone for a soldier all over the world: so there was her life in the text and there was his in pictures, page after page of plates because he was famous being so small and soldierly and his portrait had been painted again and again with all the important people. And that was my dream.
And this is my nightmare, that my agent has asked me to cut the new book before she even finishes reading it. I have managed to bore my agent to the point of revulsion, she cannot bear to read any more. Ah, me.
Also, when I turned out yesterday's loaf onto the tray to bake it, it stuck entirely to the tea-towel so that I had to scrape the dough off with my fingers. The bread recovered magnificently in the oven - sourdough is amazingly resilient - and it may be the best loaf I've made so far, but even so. I am betrayed by my own linens. (Perhaps what I need is a proper linen-lined baker's proving basket? Ay, mi...)
Gosh, it's nearly noon already. What I say is, if those good people on Radio 4 are going to talk about the Silk Road, which falls very much into the ambit of Chaz-wants-to-write-a-book-about-it, then my listening to the radio is absolutely work; and if my work is listening to the radio, then I might as well do it in bed as anywhere else. That's what I say. *nods*