Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 48

I managed to cross the 70k word threshold on The Mortality Code yesterday evening on a day full of non-stop doing (except for household practicalities), so now my head is full of two live novels, although I try not to think of Aggie too much because I’m trying to restrict her life to just the mornings when I write this.  I wonder if these two voices will conflict or spill over into each other or destroy each other. I’ll only know the answer by persisting.

Storm Dudley is upon us, and one of our fences is listing quite badly. I keep meaning to find  a piece of rope long enough to tie the loose post to the strange plum tree next to it so it stops leaning over. When Storm Eunice hits us tomorrow, I want it secured. M and I are both confused as to which fence is whose. That’s the downside to living in a garden bordered by other people’s gardens on two sides (three, actually, here, in the city where everything is packed so tightly together). I don’t know if my reluctance to even think about these borders to other people’s properties is down to my age-old instinct to withdraw into myself whenever I can. It probably is.

Last night was strangely dreamless. I did wake at quarter to one thinking it was time to get up, and was disappointed when my clock and my watch both told me it wasn’t time yet, that my brain was deceiving me. The moon was shining fully into the landing, bright as day, and I stood briefly nakedly at the window and looked up into the cloudless sky to admire its fullness. My best nights were always those when the full moon shone into my bedroom. That was before sleep became important.

I try to find ways of not repeating myself – in my recollection of facts, and in the fictional stories I tell.

The external hard drive plugged into my machine ready to prepare some radio shows is whirring loudly, and tells me time is up.




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