It’s been a great summer. The weather has been amazing. I’ve been sea swimming more than any other year and I’ve caught up with loads of friends we haven’t since pre-lockdown days. I am feeling a tad guilty though, as it seems as soon as the good weather starts all motivation for editing my current novel or finishing the two scripts which lie dormant on my laptop, stops.
I just can’t write when the sun’s out!
To justify this I read, lounge in the sun and feast on at least a book a week – sometimes more!
I’m feeling bloated with mixed genres after swallowing whole This Time Tomorrow by Emma Straub: The Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw: Baltimore Boys by Joël Dicker and Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens (pre-film thank god!)
I gorged on Bex Hogan’s YA trilogy Viper, Venom and Vulture, one after the other like I was at a medieval banquet, then fantasised about jam and cream from the Orchard Tea Rooms as I fittingly read The Great Lover by Jill Dawson, while housekeeping in Cambridge.
Now back home in the South West, I’ve immersed myself in Wyl Menmuir’s fantastic The Draw of the Sea. And find I’ve ordered a fresh batch of recommendations to further feed my non-writing habit…
Golden Hill by Francis Spufford: The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan: Cloud Street by Tim Winton and The Miniaturist
by Jessie Burton.
I shouldn’t say it, but I hope it rains soon!