Sunday, May 28, 2006

I wrote that story when...

I had the flu. Diana was sick with it, too.

We both wanted to die, and yet somehow we'd ended up in a crumbling hotel complex in the middle of nowhere - we'd booked it a week before and were stubbornly determined to have a good time.

I wrote the first draft of it sitting on the balcony, in the mornings when I could still move about, and in the evenings feeling like crap, watching the sun set behind parched hills and listening to galahs squawking as they streaked across the sky.

I was thinking about how much I loved Diana, and how pleased I was that she was my wife, and how hard that was to frame in words, and what it might be like if you could shape reality by persuading it, and that magic seemed to me to be a form of eloquence, or, at the very least, demand eloquence, and how our politicians - and marketing departments - seemed to think that was the way the world worked.

It's a love story. And it, as most of my stories are, was aimed squarely at my love.

And the holiday was okay, if weird, and sickly.

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