Sarah Ann Hall

Reporting on writing in progress or, more probably, not; practising flash fiction.

A week of weather

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Wednesday morning, we rose to rain pattering on the wheelhouse. It had stopped by the time we had our shoes on so we didn’t take an umbrella on the walk to the car. Typical that, once hubby had driven away, the rain started up again and ten minutes later I dripped back to the boat.

I started the writing day by typing in hand-written edits to my manuscript. Page 1 of Chapter 1 – last modified on 19th January 2011 (oops) – didn’t read as all that old to me. I read through the first draft on 22nd May 2011 and added a note on 22nd July that the opening needed to change. I had the idea for the story during a sleepless night in November 2010, but I can’t believe it’s a year since I made any changes to Chapter 1.

As I read through, I noticed that I hadn’t made that many changes and then I remembered that I had printed and read chapters 1 to 6 in order to know what my story was and carry on with chapter 7. So, where I thought I’d type in all my hand-written edits and notes, and have a second draft ready by the end of February, I realise now that’s not going to work. I spent the whole of Wednesday adding and cutting in chapter 1 and hadn’t finished by the end of the day. So, with 17 more chapters to go, I might be done by the end of May.

On the boat, we are experiencing all weathers. Last weekend we had ice on the roof all day, during which we reinsulated the pipes from the solar water heater. We had to move slowly and carefully so as not to slip and end up bruised or in the drink. And on Tuesday, we had to wait for the ropes to defrost before we could move to fetch water. (The warmer it was, the less likely the water pipe was to be frozen. As it was, there was ice somewhere in the hose as a very feeble water pressure at the start was gushing away by the end.) By Thursday we were going out without coats and this weekend it’s sunny and the wind is gusting away – the noise of flapping tarpaulins, creaking ropes and all sorts of unidentifiable commotion is waking us up in the early hours. It’s what we imagine being at sea in an eighteenth century galleon must have been like, and we’re thankful we experience it only infrequently.

Written by Sarah Ann

January 22, 2012 at 10:32 am

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