On Sunday, I finished the latest draft of my novel.
On Monday, I woke up early to write as usual – and stumbled, because I’d given myself the week off.
Since I was up anyway, and it the weather was so gorgeous as to be almost imaginary (gorgeousness I’d noticed only vaguely that weekend, as I stayed indoors typing with the curtains drawn), I went outside.
I bought a bacon sandwich from my favourite cafe & stowed it, still warm, in my bag. I wandered through leafy St Ann’s Well Gardens, where a ley line ends and a hermit once lived in a cave, then crossed down to Brunswick Square, pictured above. No one else was there yet.
I ate my breakfast with the sea and the grass and the birds and the flowers, and it was blissful.
Next week I’ll go back to the early morning typing and the wordcount and the angst, but this week my only goal is to do Other Things, guilt-free. I love writing, but I love having written best of all.
