Apologies there was no blog post this week, but I'm away in Shropshire and internet connection is pretty scarce (thanks, BT).
I'm here with my family, helping my parents move into their new house. They've moved after 30 years in the same house in Surrey.
As a result I wrote nothing last week. I'm trying to make up for it this week, but any break from writing quickly leads to rustiness and a massive drop in confidence, so it's been quite hard.
It is utterly beautiful here. Peaceful, green and unspoilt, every turn in every lane gives way to a postcard view of green fields, cows and red brick houses. The farms aren't an eyesore, the houses, however modest, are crumbling Tudorbethan and delightful, and the lambs whose bleating keep me up at night are destined for wool and milking not the abbattoir (I think).
It may be the time of year, but everywhere seems to me green and abundant, glowing with new life and fecundity and royal happiness, while I stay indoors, slaving over the commode (ok, laptop), straining to tap out words with one finger hovering over the delete key all the while, heaving into the pan a great load of crap.
"All first drafts are shit", said Hemingway. He wasn't half right.
Word count this week: 0
Running total: 18,535
First draft: 4,777