Writing…

Photograph of Fyodor Dostoevsky

Last week, my new friend, a buddhist, asked me what I was looking for in life. I didn’t even have to think.

“Peace. I would like to live in peace.”

But in order to live in peace, I need to finish the book, and move into the last phase of my life as I get older, embracing the stillness of nature and be at peace with myself.

My son Matthew will be the editor and at the moment is trying to help me to restructure it correctly, leaving behind the old-fashioned cliched recipe of an introduction to the story, and chapters dedicated to certain people, in this case Laura, and my late husband Rod. They need to be interspersed into the story.

We butt heads and will continue to do so, both stubborn, but I know the story better than he does and there are certain things that will be in the book because it is important to the story, and not left out because he feels that it has no relevance. But I do respect his opinion.

The fluidity of his own writing intimidates me, but I plod on. We have very different writing styles, his own, heavily influenced by the Russian writers, Vladimir Nabakov, Fyodor Dostoevsky amongst them, writers that I appreciate, my own writing style shaped by life. His writing is punchy, in this book, mine is waffling.

 

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