2012 - I have just returned from work, at Paperchase - a confined place that I spend most of my time. This is certainly a quaint city! In all of Wales I do not believe I could have picked a more robust place, where there are bars that serve strange concoctions that get me rather - as my mother would say - piddled. There are restaurants and cafes, shops and cinemas, theaters and clubs. There are houses that keep the most deranged and inquisitive of beings. Four of them live together and indulge in literature, cinema and the odd bit of wine.
In such a place I sit and ponder. I pour over my books and papers and try and piece together a story. The story to which I am working on at the moment is one that I am toying with for my MA - trying my hardest to put off the application forms that dawn in front of me...but it shall be done soon! Right now, among the clusters of books - a battered version of Wuthering Heights and Pete Doherty's journals - I am listening to the music score from Jane Eyre and thinking about writing.
I suppose many writers spend a lot of time thinking about writing rather than doing. There's this great quote from a man I always forget who said "what no wife of a writer will understand is that when he's looking out of the window, he's actually working." That quote is what I model any great relationship with a writer to be based on. If a spouse can walk in and see you're sitting there and leave you, then they get it. They get you.
It's hard to find someone who gets you these days, no? Did Heathcliff and Cathy get each other? I think they did and I think that was their flaw. They had a bond but that bond was what tore them apart. Complex, eh? What isn't?
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