An early start. I’ve always been an early riser, and after reading years ago that one of my literary heroes Bill Bryson gets up at 5am, at least in the summer, I decided I could match that and it’s been a pretty normal wake-up time for me ever since.
The children’s novel I’m working on this week is one of a series of six books of which I’ve been commissioned to write three. I’ve already written Book 1 and this is Book 3, but my second book. It’s set in the Restoration period and is about a young spy. I’m not sure I can reveal much more than that at present because up until now it’s been treated as confidential by the people I’m writing for as publication is still some way off. I’ve asked if the time has come to start blowing the trumpets about it but I haven’t got a definitive answer back yet. Watch this space!
I found it hard to get going. I’d had to put it aside for over week because Book 1 was returned to me for some editorial changes last week, and then, in accordance with Sod’s Law, after a very quiet period I’m also now inundated with work for the writing advisory services I work for. I eventually got into my stride, and managed just under 2,000 words in the morning. Late morning I always walk up the steep hill – just about 45% in some places – to the top of the village to stretch my legs and get some exercise.
There are great views out into the Channel and Atlantic from up there.
I had been hoping to work on the novel in the afternoons too, but because of my freelance deadlines I need to turn to that instead. Traditionally, no matter how many lists I prepare and how many checks I make I always forget to bring something when I come here. This time it was the £25 I had saved for the week’s car parking, so at lunchtime I took the ferry across to Fowey to use an ATM to top up my wallet. It’s my favourite form of transport, and I’m really jealous of the older Polruan kids who use it daily to get to school.
While I was in Fowey some black clouds rolled over and then the heavens opened. I had little choice but to take refuge in the Galleon Inn till the downpour had passed over.
In the afternoon I commenced reading a novel about a drunken ghost, making notes as I went in preparation to write up a critique.
I’m getting used to the low kitchen doorway, but have become so paranoid that I now duck down when I go through any door. The people who run the local newsagent’s, which has a very commodious, normal sized door, must assume I mistake them for royalty judging by my bowing performances when entering and leaving. (Funnily enough, one of them does look a bit like Prince Philip – but I don’t think she’d thank me for saying so.)