"It is January in Scotland."
Which, to be fair, is exactly what I would have said to someone complaining about the shite weather in January, in Scotland.
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I'd been working on a post for over a week when an incredibly rare kernel panic (crash) took the vast bulk of it away. It irked me. I look at the paragraph that remains and it taunts me, daring me to finish it, to attempt to rewrite it. To try, and always to wonder whether the first and lost remains the best. It isn't that important - just a post. But coming off a year of minimal literary productivity, even that is cold comfort.
2007. I wouldn't call it a great year. I fulfilled neither of my resolutions and accomplished far too little writing. Someone dear to me passed. In the last quarter my health slipped and I gained a bit of weight. Finishing the first draft of my book on New Year's Eve last year left me complacent. I had no idea, really, what I was doing and too many of the paths I followed in the meantime were dead-ends. I've learned a lot of what not to do.
I take more than hindsight from it though. A new and wonderful friendship, a deeper understanding of what I need to do and how I need to do it - it's not all bad - just not great.
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The wind had been from the east, and the breakers enormous, starting a half-mile out to sea and charging through towards the shore. Even when the wind changed, in from the west, they came still, relentless. The westerly blew their spray back and they looked like locomotives charging in on invisible tracks, their heads of steam trailing into mist behind them.
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I'm off to France on Thursday. It's been awhile. To say I'm excited would be an understatement.
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