I Miss the Castle ...

... but it's starting to fade a little now. This last week will not go down in the annals of dsiciplined, single-minded attention to creativity, or even just getting the words on the page. Indeed, it was a week for which the word "faff" was invented. I'd like to say that, instead of writing, I did all those other things that the real world is full of, but I didn't do those either. Just faffed. And looked longingly at listings of other residencies/retreats. (I can't reapply to Hawthornden for 5 years, but come 2014 - watch my dust!) And wondered sporadically if I have perhaps nailed my colours to the wrong mast after all, and I should be writing for adults.

Next week is going to be different. And I've been thinking about archy, the cockroach poet of Don Marquis' "archy and mehitabel" fame.

expression is the need of my soul
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life
i see things from the under side now
thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket

Every letter a nosedive from the top of the typewriter! I should complain!

Cheers, Joan.