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| 1907 glass in Sunderland Empire Theatre |
It's now eight weeks on and I'm sorry to have kept you in suspense... I think it is safe to say that the last eight weeks have been some of the hardest of my career so far not because I'm in a difficult school - far from it - but because starting a new job really does feel like starting from scratch again and because I hadn't realised how much damage had been done to my self esteem and self confidence over the past few years. I've never worked as hard as I've done this term and although I've really enjoyed it, I am seriously ready for a break next week. I know I have definitely chosen the best place to teach: my new school does serious cake related activities - in eight weeks there've been three cake related incidents of note and a further one concerning chocolate!!
It hasn't all been work: I've embarked on the second year of my MA (and am already seriously behind with the work!), there's been a wonderful trip to London to meet up with a very special friend briefly over from the States, a birthday (number now censored because it's starting to be scary!), a joyous three days of ballet last week when the 'team' came back to town ( and where the sun on Saturday was so glorious I was able to take this photo!) and last night a most surreal visit to Durham Cathedral, of all places, to hear Ian Rankin and PD James in discussion: I say hear because we couldn't really see either of them from where we were!! Thick, mysterious fog engulfed us as we came out and walked down into town - Durham at night is so evocative!
Grouse and Partridge have taken on a life of their own on the internet, selling a very respectable number of copies across September and October, and the fabulous review of Scotch Mist FelePain posted in August has now been joined by an equally glowing review of Scotch Broth. Kindle has been a revelation and I finally received my first payment from them at the beginning of September for £19! More than I've had from Lulu over the years!!
And the new book? Lies in piles of scribbled paper I'm afraid - it's not that I don't want to write it, it's just finding the brain-space to do so. I feel a responsibility to the characters and their readers. But at the moment, I just don't know when I'm going to be able to take up the challenge again and allow myself the chance to write anything else. Last night just brought it home: if you call yourself a writer, you should at least be trying to write, shouldn't you?
