As I was walking along my dear River Exe yesterday, I spotted and snapped a picture which made me think of writing life -
What's he talking about now, you may well ask? (Which I know must be a familiar feeling for readers of my musings.)
Firstly, I saw the loneliness of being a writer.
For all that people talk about the glamour and joy of the job, it can be a very solitary existence.
Sitting here in my study, tapping away, day after day, and always wondering if what you're doing is any good and will ever see some form of publication.
On a pure writing day, I can get to the end of it and realise I haven't actually had a conversation with anyone, the imaginary friends of my characters aside.
Secondly, the picture made me think about the wonderful myth of writing -
That good books just appear on the shelves with the input of almost no effort.
It's very much like the way of the swan. For all the seeming to glide effortlessly through the water, in fact, underneath there's a lot of hard paddling going on.
But there's also a third resonance to the image that chimed with me.
For all the loneliness of the job, and the hard work (and believe me, it can feel like darned hard work some days)...
It's still a very beautiful way of life.