9pm: I'm sitting outside the kitchen, moth wings fluttering past my temple - not quite a nuisance, not even a presence, only a temporary deeper darkness, like the occasional suspicion that I am not a writer after all.
Why did I ever tell anyone that I'm writing a book (in fact, I had to tell the husband. It was out of my control afterwards). But now, what if at the end of 20 days here they actually expect a book? A fully formed volume and the film rights bought and Liam Hemsworth in the running for Amar? Imagine stepping out of the airport, back in Scotland:
"So, book finished then?"
"Hey, how's the writing? Found a publisher yet?"
"Did you do lots in Portugal? Did everything come together?" Etc.
Should I tell them about the irredeemable page six? About the soul-destroying fact that, after all the work, Zefira still manages to sound spoilt and soppy? About the Aleph conundrum - should he play a bigger part, when, how? Stuff like that? Or should I keep it simple and merry, "Oh, yes - just watch that bookshop"... as reassuring as demented dreams can be.
In the supermarket today, I queued behind an old sea captain (Spanish, it turned out); quite dashing (grey beard, liquid eyes) and gallant too: he instantly gave me his place in the queue, we chatted.
"What do you do?" he asked. I noticed he was buying vast quantities of bottled water. I cast about. "Pesquisa", I said in Portuguese, alarmed at once that he may ask for details. But no, he nodded, entirely satisfied, and provided the word in Spanish:
"Ah, investigaciónes."
This is it: research, the perfect occupation. Vague, interesting-sounding and important; moreover, endless. It spans anything I want to do, and anything you want to think I'm doing. It's what humankind itself does: investigaciónes - cleaners can declare they 'investigate' dust, bakers can say the same about sugar and flour, and bureaucrats ditto, on boredom.
Why did I ever tell anyone that I'm writing a book (in fact, I had to tell the husband. It was out of my control afterwards). But now, what if at the end of 20 days here they actually expect a book? A fully formed volume and the film rights bought and Liam Hemsworth in the running for Amar? Imagine stepping out of the airport, back in Scotland:
"So, book finished then?"
"Hey, how's the writing? Found a publisher yet?"
"Did you do lots in Portugal? Did everything come together?" Etc.
Should I tell them about the irredeemable page six? About the soul-destroying fact that, after all the work, Zefira still manages to sound spoilt and soppy? About the Aleph conundrum - should he play a bigger part, when, how? Stuff like that? Or should I keep it simple and merry, "Oh, yes - just watch that bookshop"... as reassuring as demented dreams can be.
In the supermarket today, I queued behind an old sea captain (Spanish, it turned out); quite dashing (grey beard, liquid eyes) and gallant too: he instantly gave me his place in the queue, we chatted.
"What do you do?" he asked. I noticed he was buying vast quantities of bottled water. I cast about. "Pesquisa", I said in Portuguese, alarmed at once that he may ask for details. But no, he nodded, entirely satisfied, and provided the word in Spanish:
"Ah, investigaciónes."
This is it: research, the perfect occupation. Vague, interesting-sounding and important; moreover, endless. It spans anything I want to do, and anything you want to think I'm doing. It's what humankind itself does: investigaciónes - cleaners can declare they 'investigate' dust, bakers can say the same about sugar and flour, and bureaucrats ditto, on boredom.
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