Not-Writing

Always strange, I feel, this period between Christmas Eve and New Year's day, when everyone seems to retreat into their homes and normal life is on hold. Amid a few bursts of seasonal sociability, I've had time in which I could have been Getting On (with the next novel). But it's hard to resist the feeling that it's 'the holidays, or at least, that's my excuse, and so I haven't.

Instead I've been: sorting recipes. Going through a file bulging with greasy plastic wallets stuffed full of cuttings could be seen as a tedious and not very creative task. But a ruthless cull of recipes for things I've never tried and no longer want to cook or eat has been satisfying. And here and there are treasures: old favourites I've forgotten about, like Harvester's Crumble and Queen of Puddings. And some recipes, especially the hand-written ones, bring back memories… Aunt Heather's rusks: and immediately I'm back in her small front parlour, under her watchful eye, enjoying the sharp taste of cheddar and trying not to make crumbs. A much-stained recipe for mince pies evokes the shared Christmas ritual with Mum, her careful spooning in the heaps of mincemeat the only 'cooking' she ever did in the end.

I've also been: planning an extension. Every now and then the frustration of not having enough space, of having to manhandle mattresses down stairs if someone comes to stay, of wanting somewhere to put a fridge-freezer, drives me to come up with schemes, all of which have foundered on some unforeseen obstacle. But I've been measuring everything obsessively and drawing scale plans and this time I think I may have cracked it. And the beauty of my latest plan is that it gives me what I've long wanted: a room overlooking the garden and beyond that, the fields and fells: a room with a view, to write in.

And inspired by the frost I've been: slow looking. That is focusing on small details and really looking properly. Here are some of the results:

 

 

Conjuring memories; creating rooms that didn't exist before; intent observation.

Actually not-writing has turned out to be rather like writing, after all.