I’ve got that restless feeling again that comes along when I’m waiting to write something new. I’ve already made as much of an outline as I ever do, in fact more than usual – I’ve even got an idea of how the first 3 chapters are going to go, along with a little bit of very fiddly detail about how some of the characters are going to interact. However, I don’t want to start writing until the 1st of April, because I’ve chosen to write at least the first half of this novel during Camp NaNoWriMo. Somehow setting a start date seems like the right thing to do, even although it doesn’t do anything to help with this edginess.
Of course it isn’t the case that I don’t have anything else to do to keep me occupied.For one thing, I’ve done what I promised myself I wouldn’t do, and volunteered to help with some extra stuff at a local organisation again. You’d think I’d know better but evidently I don’t. Actually, researching my family history and finding that one of my grandfather’s uncles was treasurer of a voluntary organisation for over 40 years, and that my grandfather and father had both, somewhat unexpectedly, turned out to have acted as secretaries to another one elsewhere, has made me feel a bit fatalistic about this kind of thing. Maybe it’s just meant to happen and there is no way of escaping it.
Then there’s the house and garden. Because it’s a lovely day here in Edinburgh I have been out to survey the ruins of the garden. However, my hopes of being able to make some impact on the wreckage were dashed almost as soon as I started to pull up the ivy that has crept all across the ground and is currently twining itself round the lower reaches of the bamboo plant – my favourite thing of all, because of the way the sunlight strikes it, almost lighting it up as if it were centre stage – when my back muscles started to complain so much that I had to come in and lie down for an hour. This didn’t really help as much as I thought it would, as just before going outside I had decided I didn’t like my room looking like something from ‘Great Expectations’ and I had run a brush round the cornices, dislodging dust and cobwebs with gay abandon. When I lay down, all the newly liberated dust headed traight for my eyes, nose and mouth, and what with that and the cat sitting on my chest I had to give up resting in favour of taking steps to make sure I could still breathe.