I seem to have a lot in common with the house I live in these days.
Like me, it is starting to crumble. Cracks appear almost as I watch, making me wonder if there is a time limit on buildings. I mean, how much longer can it stand. I hope it lasts a little longer than I do!
I have never liked this house much, it’s nearly two hundred years old and quaintly called a cottage. God knows why, as it has large rooms with very high ceilings.
Ten years ago, after the worst luck in our history, this house was a much-needed lifeline when we desperately needed one. We grabbed it with both hands, collectively, of course.
After the ancient and dilapidated static caravan, this house seemed like a mansion. We thought we could be happy here, even without central heating and on a very busy main road.
After the postage stamp of a garden at the caravan, I was in seventh heaven when we moved here. A communal garden shared with three other families; our given space was a long section of overgrown wilderness that begged me to roll up my sleeves.
Despite my efforts, this garden has always beaten me. I swear everything can grow faster than I can think. Over the years, it has gradually reduced me to the bare minimum of control.
I have tried to turn my brain off to avoid thinking about the futility of it all. As they say, it is what it is, and there’s not much we can do about any of it…
The past twelve months have quite literally been a nightmare with all those hospital trips; the uncertainty and the long periods of waiting have played havoc with our lives.
So many things have suffered along with our family. It has been a time of indescribable worry when we have had to make do, try to cope with the basics and ignore the pile of jobs that seem to lurk in every room (and garden)
Of course, the most neglected job (and I still call it that even though I love every aspect of it,) is my writing. It hasn’t been entirely abandoned, although to be fair, most of it has been going on inside my head.
As Anita’s health slowly improves, although not entirely resolved yet, I have found a few odd moments to scribble away at my WIP (Ghost of a Chance, book four in my DI Snow series) to the glorious word count of 20,573 words. I am reasonably happy with my progress, although in retrospect, the story is just the bare bones at the moment.
My first draft tends to be just a glorified outline, as I have learned to depend on my characters teaching me about their lives. As you can imagine, this usually results in a very messy first draft, as so much is added as I go along. It’s probably not how you should write a story of any consequence, but it seems to work for me these days.
A retired detective turns private investigator to solve a case the police dismiss. Injured on the job, Snow is forced into retirement, but not ready to stop solving cases. He witnesses a serious mistake which triggers a strong desire to help the victim, a helpless old woman.
An officer resents Snow’s interference and determines to stop him somehow. But other forces are at work here, frustrating all efforts to save the victim.
Can Snow control these forces that are at work against him, or must he suffer defeat again?
We are looking forward to a year of peace and quiet, time to recharge our batteries and catch up on all those neglected things. We also hope that this year will be so much better than the last one!