In the post novel malaise, the well's a trifle dry. So, other than various workish duties, I've been submerging myself in Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridan and No Country for Old Men, and what wondrous bloody fever dreams they are.
I've been thinking about writing lately - what a surprise, eh. Teaching it, well, obviously, focuses your thoughts on the processes, and it takes me that the only truly important things, other than an understanding of what words do, and an idea of how to put them on the page*, is joy and bravery.
There's a bleak joyfulness in Blood Meridan's tumbling, rushing landscapes, (my goodness, all those stars) and McCarthy doesn't shy away from engulfing you in it. There's a confidence in his prose that I can only envy.
Talking of confident prose I'll be at Avid on Saturday Sept 13 taking part in the Marathon Reading of Of Mice and Men. There's some great readers involved, John Birmingham, Krissy Kneen, and Chris Currie among them, so you should pop down and check it out. There's more details here, and all the proceeds are going towards the support of aboriginal literacy.**
I've never read any Steinbeck, so this has been a great excuse to correct that lack.
*both of which are a lifetime's work, and for me, one that involves a lot of stumbling.
**so if anyone is interested in sponsoring me, let me know