During our Grenoble days, I might spend part of Saturday evening labouring over the preparation of tables of irregular French verbs as I worked on my guide to English and French grammar. The part of me which questioned whether or not this was indeed a sad way to be spending a Saturday evening was quietened by the part reminding me that, in the scheme of things, living in another country was adventure enough and I'd probably be out driving in a national park the following day.
As last autumn turned to winter, I spent days mugging up on the use of commas, on the finer points of constructing strong sentences - word order, apt use of punctuation.
Then there's the close analysis of novels to check how other writers write. The absorption of techniques I would like to deploy, the noting of so many pitfalls - devices which take the reader out of the story or make her generally irritated. Whilst there is ample scope for learning about the craft of writing, the downside is that it's so much easier to be critical of a novel now, than it might have been even five years ago.
Perhaps I've mentioned this before, but I came across a quote about writers which I love: Writers are committed to words. For me this is so true, whether those words be written or spoken. I remember people who have a fresh turn of phrase: a vibrant metaphor. I can enjoy talking to such people, even if I don't particularly like them. Years later, I will remember how they expressed something. Picture language.
I don't pretend to myself that the writing I do is important or will even ever benefit anyone, except possibly me. I write because I love doing so, because I need to. Ideally, perhaps, I'd be working at a worthwhile job and writing in my free time. In fact, I did do that for many years. What is great about writing is that I can think of it both as work and as pleasure. It can be isolating, as all writers know, but the creative freedom it allows is invaluable.
Fortunately yours
Jane
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