I’ve decided that having started to blog, I may as well continue, though at a much reduced rate. About once a month should be enough at the moment.
Getting home wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it might be. We arrived at Heathrow just before a cold January dawn, but had a warm taxi waiting. The sun came up as we drove through the Hampshire countryside, a sunrise cross-crossed by vapour trails, one of them probably ours. The dull winter landscape was covered in lacy frost, turning it from mud to magic. Arriving home we discovered that the house-sitter (gawd bless ‘im) had not only cleaned the house (some bits were cleaner than when we moved in…) but had left a pile of DVDs on the sideboard and a bar of emergency chocolate in the fridge.
Our first expedition was a walk ‘down town’ (well, down village), via the path along the river Arle which, though I didn’t put it on my hastily assembled final list, was something I had missed about home. Since then I’ve repeated that walk on several occasions (as every time there’s something different – trout, kingfishers, irate farmers), but haven’t got any further away than Winchester (7 miles), and that only to shop (on a motorcycle. In the snow. uugh). I expected to go back to being a part-time charity shop manager, a day job stranger than fiction that I’ve done for several years now, but I’ve ended doing admin stuff for a local firm, which pays better and is only five minutes walk away. So, I’ve no reason to go out, and no car to do it in. This wasn’t a problem at first, as I was genuinely glad to be home, but now I’m beginning to think I should probably try and, well, get out more. I kind of feel like I’ve used up all my travelling for several years, and am becoming some sort of hermit.
I do tend to hibernate in winter, so maybe my body is trying to catch up on all the winter it missed, but I wonder if perhaps I’m fading away a bit. Writing wise I certainly am. I’m getting a fair amount done (when not undertaking writing avoidence exercises like this blog), but it’s hard to motivate myself. With the exception of letters to agents, who politely tell me they aren’t taking anyone on at the moment, everything I send, stories to ‘zines, novel to publishers and even an article I was actually asked to write, dammit, has disappeared without trace. And none of the zines or publishers are answering my (polite but increasingly desperate) emails. Right now even a rejection would be nice, as it would tell me that someone somewhere has at least looked at something I sent them. As it is, I think I may just be failing to reach the outside world at all any more.
Hello? Anyone there? Thought not.