Not writing

I have not written anything here for six months or so. That’s not because there has been nothing to say. There has been plenty to say. In that time I’ve moved house, technically moved house several times, given that the move involved two periods of temporary rental (house selling and buying got somewhat out of synch) until finally buying a three-storey Victorian house in the City of Ripon, North Yorkshire. A long way from London and, given that I unsuccessfully lived here before between 2006 and 2009, is in itself enough material to write several books. Also during this time, for one reason and another, pretty much all house-move related, I’ve written very little. At least if writing is deemed to be the act of putting pen to paper or tapping a keyboard into submission.

I have, though, written a great deal in my head. Mostly my ongoing novel, set in 1971 and the first few months of 1972. And now that’s beginning to grow like a well-watered begonia on the page as well as inside my brain.

There are, however, other things ongoing that have prevented blogging (I hate that word, it sounds so childish, like someone made it up rather than attend English class), not least a perpetual worry about a dear friend’s ill health. So that, the house (it’s a renovation project) and keeping 1971 buoyant have been more than enough.

There is no need to write more here. For now.

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