My intention to keep a diary of a novel while working on my new book, I’m afraid, has been neglected. I don’t feel too guilty about that since, meantime, I have been working on the novel itself and am happy to report, am making good progress.
Yesterday, I woke late and drove to the river, knowing I would have missed my kayaking friends who paddle upstream on Tuesdays. Contrary to Bom advice, the conditions for paddling were perfect and I decided to go downstream by myself. The only other craft I saw was the Rottnest ferry and, as usual, being on the water sent me into an ataraxic state. Who needs meditation, when you can walk or swim or paddle? As often happens, the characters in my book found me and, together we went down a few more numbat holes, solved some problems, and cooked up a few more.
It always fascinates me how the writing mind works when the body has been given a physical activity other than sitting at the desk in front of the computer. Perhaps, also, while walking on the beach or paddling on the river I am free of the increasing number of distractions that invade our world today. I’m not tempted to look at my emails, or Facebook, or go and get a coffee. The vacuum cleaner and the floor mop can cheerfully be ignored.
However, instead of being on the river, as nourishing as that is, I really need to return to the south west, where my book is set. I need to find a forest, a quite forest track to lead me into my ataraxic space, fed by the beauty and the humming energy of nature. It will be the start of Makaruru, the Noongar season of fertility. It will be cold, perhaps wet, but I feel the need to drench myself in every season in order to give integrity to my tale.
