Am not getting anywhere with the alchemy. Despite wearing my writing clothes for three days and forcing myself not to write anything until Monday I’ve still no idea what the alchemist is even called, let alone what he’s up to. I think he’s Welsh. I can see hlim clearly, tall, boney, with one of those faces that don’t let you know whether they’re laughing at you or with you, and long fingers. Trust him or trust him not? Dunno. His boy too, doomed or not? A sprite, ill-fed but sharp as a sparrow. What the hell has any of this to do with Hildegard? Dunno that either.
I think of taking a quick trip up to town to visit my dear old favourite library in Gordon Square. They always have what I want. Even though they’re an ecclesiastical, non-conformist sort of place I’m sure they’ll have something on alchemy, the beginning of rational scientific investigation, but I’ve just come back from a long train journey and feel like staying in my burrow while the frost lasts. Nothing much online. A dead loss. Why don’t I know any magicians? The novel by Dennis Wheatley arrived late last night from Amazon. It looks prosaic to me. I thought he was supposed to be into all that sort of stuff? It seems to be a boy’s own adventure of the type you’d write if you were a fella and had just done a stint in WWII. Shall start reading it later today in a cafe a few yards from where he actually put the words down.
This blog will never do as a guide on how to write. Well, it’s how I write.
Am off to imbibe some vitamin D as it’s a gloriously sunny day.
Train journeys always open the flood gates to new ideas so maybe I’ll think about that while I walk about. Could go tomorrow.
Or would it be better to haunt Netley Abbey instead?