I didn’t go to the community roof garden.
I didn’t go to Publish and Be Damned at the ICA. Damn.
I didn’t see the Judy Chicago exhibition at the Ben Uri gallery. It’s been on since mid November, closes next week. Typical.
I didn’t ring any of my family in Melbourne. 11 hour time difference is tricky. But no excuse.
I did, though, sit at my desk and drink coffee and write. And write. More coffee. Gazed out the window at the bare trees. Noticed slivers of blue sky between the clouds; later, at last, a clear sky. Back to my desk, pushing on, finally finishing the first draft of a story I started in mid January, from a scrap I’d written in October, prompted by a photo taken years ago in another place. The story is longer than I initially thought it would be, and has revealed itself slowly. I don’t have a title as yet. The next stage is editing, checking, rewriting. A slightly different kind of activity. But it’s good to have a first draft done, to have wrenched out this thing that took shape, evolved, in my head. It feels a strange, somewhat mysterious process, but it’s not magic. Time, patience, coffee. Ink and paper. Words. A good weekend.