Birthday time: Day Four

It’s King Richard II’s six hundred and fifty first birthday today.  I hope he’s celebrating somewhere in the ether.

It’s also Epiphany but one of those, personally, is somewhat far off today.

This whole blog-and-write entrerprise is already foundering.  I usually spend the first few days before starting chapter one by getting into the zone but it seems as if everything is conspiring to drag me back to the world of trivia – fridge breaking down, orders not being delivered, being overcharged in stupid shops, Ten Weeks That Changed England not downloading properly and would-be readers blaming me, and worse, car not working and the RAC who are supposed to help made me waste an hour on the phone yesterday, the only result being that my car still won’t go and their telephone operatives still need further training.  How is it possible to write with all this mundane stuff going on?  I’ve always seen the need for writers’ retreats but don’t fancy travelling overseas at this time.  Why are there so few retreats in England?  ( I bleat). There used to be the great St Deiniol’s Library in the Welsh Marches, perfect in every way until it was ‘modernised’ and turned into a ‘hotel with books’ as one of the habitues described it.  I don’t want a hotel, with or without books.  Couples sitting silently opposite each other at breakfast.  Everybody avoiding eye contact.  Conversation level zero.  It used to be full of erudite fellows with a sharp line in banter.  Outside the solitude of the library you had to be on your toes. Sadly that was yesteryear. Where are they now?

Moan, moan, moan.

I’ll never write anything in this frame of mind.

At least Amazon have just rung me re my call for help and a charming woman in the Caribbean sorted out the problem in under ten minutes.  Ten Weeks is now completely downloadable and if it’s not on your ebook device a short call will bring help.  It’s a free download for Hildegard’s fans on Amazon prime.   Great system. Very grateful (the RAC could learn a lot).

Next, deal with the car.  (Trip to Netley Abbey scrubbed for now)..

Deal with car tax.

Deal with Waitrose.

Deal with unexpected bill.

Deal with prosopagnosia training.

Deal with the day’s food. (Forget wonky fridge for now.)

Think about lovely phone call  last night (more later, I hope, re Dragon of Handale).

Go to gym.

Then think about The Alchemist at Netley Abbey.

The WIP somebody called it.  The Work In Progress.  More like The WNIP.

On the positive side I’ve at least started reading the Dennis Wheatley for his slant on the occult.  Not very relevant but a good read.  No wonder he was a best-seller in his day.  It’s a bit dated but even so he pitches right into the story on page one with strong characters, cliff-hanger chapters and, 100 pages in, an ever more labyrinthine plot.  Not characters mindlessly killing each other but real moral dilemmas, or at least real if you accept the existence of a left-hand path.

After lunch it’s going to be Chaucer’s Treatise on the Astrolabe.  Read it ages ago but couldn’t make sense of it.  This time will try harder.

Nowhere near The Zone at present.

Chapter One on Monday seems very very far away.

Onwards.