I’m winding down – I can feel it. London is slowly overtaking New Zealand in my mind. I get too excited to sleep sometimes, or too agitated to write. My head is a jumble of ideas and ways I want it to be next time round, the moments I’ll savour, plans, schemes, the feast to follow a famine. When all my thoughts align I can see so clearly where I’m going, and I scramble for a pen and paper, looking at the page moments later only to find random words. “Happy”. “Restrict”. “Don’t”. I’ll let my subconscious work it out.
My Mother bought me a homeopathy spray for the jet lag. I’m emailing myself everything I’ve ever written. I still have a third of the book to edit, but I need a break, to get some perspective again, to read a few novels, to miss
writing. Each time I revisit a chapter, a whole new layer unfolds, demanding more detail, more editing, more voice. Not that I’m complaining. I know how lucky I’ve been to spend a summer faffing about with words and junk. I’ve never worked so hard, or been so happy to do it.
Expect more of the same over the next few days. Goodbyes. Promises. Things I write down so I won’t forget them.