I'm not sure I should be allowed a blog. It's been months, hasn't it? Fluency, whether in poems, novels, blogs, emails, seems to be a discrete with me. Either I am or I ain't. I haven't been. I am being, a bit more, now. 60,000 words and some months of grimly putting one word set in 1930s Canada after another, I suddenly have the feeling that things are beginning to get easier; something is about to happen, this character or that is becoming someone...
Maybe it's just that I'm reading two very impressive books: Mantel's Wolf Hall, and Janice Galloway's Clara...and that always makes me feel creatively hopeful. As for my own effort, I daren't read it back. It is still too stumbling. Not yet, not yet...
