July arrived halfway through June. It just barged in, kicked its yellow Crocs off, ate all the nice biscuits and the selfish wrinkle it left in the space-time continuum has left me feeling not very marketing. Trying to get my mojo working again feels a bit like chain-eating mince pies in the hope I will relive, for one last time, that giddy excitement of hanging up my Xmas stocking as a kid. It isn’t happening.
I’m going with - the books are out there, nice things are being said, and that is absolutely OK.
I wrote this belated newsletter on the good ship Strawberry Fields (eeek! boat! mine!). It was blowing a gale, but a gale on a canal isn’t the lumpy experience I’ve been subjected to on lakes and seas. The boat was creaking against the mooring lines, there was an occasional soft thump when an extra-large gust hit, and the ducks swam extremely fast in one direction and less so in the other. But my coffee didn’t spill. The water stayed on the outside. I cosied up against my fluffy strawberries and spent a couple of happy hours typing while bobbing. As well as this newsletter, I found many more words for Book 3 (“it’s… it’s called Northern Sky”, squeaks my tired publicity brain cell) … short excerpt below…
Nell is sitting on the bed, scrunching her hands into mad ginger curls that are still damp from the bath. A hurried tin one, taken before a reluctant fire. An idea that looks nicer written on paper than it does endured in practise. Her dress is a drab but warm effort - our new wardrobe is wool heavy, either knitted or woven. Under my thick sweater I have a plain cotton shirt, whereas Nell has the addition of an off-white petticoat, the hem of which peeks shyly out from beneath the dress. Another white-ish garment lies on the bed. Upon seeing me, Nell quickly tucks whatever item this is under the sheets. Her cheeks are flushed, perhaps from the bath.
‘Please stop staring.’
No, not the bath. Amidst a squeal of unhappy bedsprings, I take a seat next to her, wrap my arm around her shoulders.
‘Sorry, I’ve… never see you in a dress.’ The words that didn’t need saying hover awkwardly, prickling the air between us. ‘You… you look lovely.’
‘I look like a joke. And what the f**k is this?’
Nell reaches for the item she hid beneath the bedding. Two broad ribbons of linen give away its identity even before she spreads it across her knees. An apron.
‘It’s an…’
‘It’s a rhetorical question.’
Chronic illness being what it is - chronic - I am still exhausted. And still so very sore. But when on the boat, I also feel… grounded?
In this context, I mean grounded as in safe, as in at peace, as in - this is where I am me. Not the business of walking around barefoot to connect to the Earth. For giggles I asked Google if you can achieve the same thing by grounding yourself on water, and AI Overview wasn’t very nice.
Intentionally grounding yourself in the water while on or near a boat is dangerous and can lead to an electric shock.
OK, so I’m not grounded.
I’m afloat.
And I’m loving it.
Linnhe x
Easy marketing bits. Please do take a look if you are dystopianly inclined and can handle the odd ukulele video.
Thank you.
