I’ve been trying to rewrite the beginning of the book for the last week or so. I’ve already re-written it so many times it hardly even seems real to me, but I’m comforted by the fact that this time, it’s more of a re-organization. At least I’m fundamentally at peace with the words, the ideas. I dream of coming up with something perfect, something snappy, but the truth is, it is what it is, and at a certain point we have to leave it. I was never much of an artist, but when I was younger I enjoyed making sketches and pictures, and I would always ruin the image at the last minute by trying to do too much. It seems like simple enough advice; but I’m trying to weave Flaubert, Oxford, cab drivers, mythology, Max Beerbohm, and Agatha Christie into something elegant, and surprisingly enough, this is proving to be rather difficult.
In other news, the Man and I watched “My Fair Lady” earlier (I’ve been ill, and he’s been nursing me back to health, whilst simultaneously nursing his own football-induced wounds, so we’re a bit of a pathetic pair at the moment–picture me on the couch at midday, holding a teddy bear and sobbing at the happy ending of “Beauty and the Beast”). And I have “all I want is a room somewhere” stuck in my head. Lucky for everyone I’m not much up to singing, at the moment.