Two girls in the library were eating an easter-egg while working on a project together. I suddenly released how close to spring we are, and I remembered seeing buds, tiny pink spores of life, beginning to grow on the trees, and it hasn’t been overly cold for quite some time. More birdsong in lighter mornings, and walking home from work at 17:00 in the daylight, and warmer rain, have escaped my attention until I noticed people have started to buy and eat easter-eggs. I’m so glad winter is drawing to an end, because although I am found of the season, I can’t wait for the time when I don’t have to wear a coat. However, I am worried the library will become inordinately hot, and the fans will be on max, meaning pages will fly all over the place and I will no longer be able to work there.
Speaking of fans, my computer is still suffering from spontaneous bursts of whirring fits, and I’m getting to understand the sensible idea would be to have someone examine it before the hard-drive over-heats, and bursts into flame.
A drunk man stumbled past the stacks, muttered something incoherent at me and continued into the navel section. A few minutes later he reemerged with a book about the development of navel power throughout the 60s and 70s, and all I could think as he sat down to read it, reeking of alcohol, was ‘can he actually understand that?’ I wonder if I could convince my friends to try to undertake the task of reading this book while they are hammered one evening, and write down their results before they reenter the land of the sombre. Not sure any of them would go for it, but the process would be interesting. After all, this particular intoxicated individual seemed content to sit and rifle through picture-less pages; maybe reading books on the enhancement of boat technologies is easier under the influence. Maybe that’s why sea-men are infamous for their drinking habits.
Another gentleman and his wife were speaking loudly at the computer about the details of their attempts to discover their great aunt-Gertrude on the library consensus pages. Apparently she worked in Plymouth during the early half of the century. They were in their 80s, and spent nearly two-hours sifting through the information. I think they were successful in their search, because they high-fived a few minutes before they left. Team-work, I suppose. They were politely asked how long they meant to be on the computers by a member of staff, because another lady was waiting to use the ancestor database. Gosh, thought I, there sure are a lot of people on the hunt for their relatives today. Turns out the library is running a special week-long event to help people fill the gaps in their family tree; I found that on a poster on the way out. One day, I continued, I should do that, because my known family is tiny, but I know it branches further than family ties have been able to hold together, and I would like to know better where I descend from. Not now however, for I am writing a novel.
I need more highlighters. Having had a productive day writing by hand at the library, scribbling down notes on plot changes, and word alterations on a rough-draft, I have realised possessing highlighters of more than one colour will make the editing and type stages much more efficient. I know I have an orange one somewhere, which when flipped becomes yellow, but I seem to have misplaced it.
A man hovered near my table for a moment, but when I looked up to see if he meant to address me he gave a quick smile and walked away. I wonder if he was reading what I was scrawling, and I wonder if he was enjoying it.
I read a beautiful poem by John Donne, called A VALEDICTION OF MY NAME, IN THE WINDOW. I looked it up because it was mentioned in the book I spoke about a few days about, and I now connect what Miss Collins was referring to when she briefly noted it in her work. Mostly the second verse, for anyone who may have finished her beautiful novel A Trick of the Dark this verse may be of particular interest. If you haven’t read it, you should. I promised a review didn’t I? I’ll get round to that at some point. For now, the verse is this one.
‘Tis much that glass should be
As all-confessing, and through-shine as I ;
‘Tis more that it shows thee to thee,
And clear reflects thee to thine eye.
But all such rules love’s magic can undo ;
Here you see me, and I am you.’
I have to write poetry for this novel, and I am not very good at crafting words in this format. I wrote down possible inspirations in my notebook, but I shall also have to gather books talking about how to write poetry. I did a module in the basics of writing verse at university and I studied reading it in another, but I’ve never been captivated by the idea of creating my own pieces. I blabber rather than carefully construct. I actually wrote down beside the possible inspirations ‘must not blabber, but carefully construct’. I’m concerned as to why I found the need to remind myself of this; I think it’s an obvious point.
Maybe if I kept my mind on what I was writing as oppose to what is going on around me, I’d be further in my novel.