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How long do you get to go without writing before you stop feeling you are actually a writer?
In my case, not long at all, it seems. Allowing myself a few days to dangle at loose ends seems designed to leave me feeling a fraud in all things, not writing alone.
Still not much enbrained. Hopefully this will be altered by next week.
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Swimming this morning, very briefly, on the low tide. The water clear like glass, and shocking-cold, tasting of clean brine. And walking this afternoon, at full tide, with the shoreline like some dream of sand and stones and blue-green water pooling clear in the lee of seaweed-straggled rocks, and the sun shining, and a rising breeze off the water.
The rock-formations are dark streaks under the water at high tide. It's one of the more dangerous spots on this stretch of coast, because of the shoals and the reefs - they stretch at places well out from the shore proper, I'm not sure how far, but above a kilometer at least. There're a couple of ghost stories about wrecks, and one cairn of stones alleged to cover the remains of two sailors washed up rather late from their wreck, sometime in the nineteenth century (perhaps - though I can't swear to it, not having any proper sources for the matter - from the wreck of the Bell Hill).
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Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is a rather better film than Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Funny, with Nazis and explosions and really amusing dialogue.
But yes. Still with the urge to write a book about less unreal early twentieth century archaeologists. Fixated, even. Complete with snark about Arthur Evans and Heinrich Schliemann, and a cameo of Harriet Boyd Hawes, pioneering woman archaeologist extraordinaire. And mention of Flinders Petrie, who pioneered systematic methodology in archaeology, as well as excavating at Amarna and Abydos.
The period before WWI is kind of fascinating in terms of Mediterranean archaeology, really. And I do not need another fascination right now.
In my case, not long at all, it seems. Allowing myself a few days to dangle at loose ends seems designed to leave me feeling a fraud in all things, not writing alone.
Still not much enbrained. Hopefully this will be altered by next week.
#
Swimming this morning, very briefly, on the low tide. The water clear like glass, and shocking-cold, tasting of clean brine. And walking this afternoon, at full tide, with the shoreline like some dream of sand and stones and blue-green water pooling clear in the lee of seaweed-straggled rocks, and the sun shining, and a rising breeze off the water.
The rock-formations are dark streaks under the water at high tide. It's one of the more dangerous spots on this stretch of coast, because of the shoals and the reefs - they stretch at places well out from the shore proper, I'm not sure how far, but above a kilometer at least. There're a couple of ghost stories about wrecks, and one cairn of stones alleged to cover the remains of two sailors washed up rather late from their wreck, sometime in the nineteenth century (perhaps - though I can't swear to it, not having any proper sources for the matter - from the wreck of the Bell Hill).
#
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is a rather better film than Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Funny, with Nazis and explosions and really amusing dialogue.
But yes. Still with the urge to write a book about less unreal early twentieth century archaeologists. Fixated, even. Complete with snark about Arthur Evans and Heinrich Schliemann, and a cameo of Harriet Boyd Hawes, pioneering woman archaeologist extraordinaire. And mention of Flinders Petrie, who pioneered systematic methodology in archaeology, as well as excavating at Amarna and Abydos.
The period before WWI is kind of fascinating in terms of Mediterranean archaeology, really. And I do not need another fascination right now.
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Date: 2008-06-07 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-06-07 10:42 pm (UTC)