This is a tall street house with - as I have said here - its own history which I find engaging. But my main purpose in staying in this house is to write this novel which was inspired by earlier sojourns in this town. But it has taken me nearly a week to find the right place here to work.
I have tried the enormous kitchen table which has space for prepping, cooking, reading, talking eating and drinking . but somehow it doesn’t work for writing, I’ve tried it. My mind wanders away from Stella/Star and her world to the more urgent and somehow easier human dramas around me.
The table is very good for playing around with my new lap top. I can write my blog. I can teach myself how to download my photos to illustrate what I say here. I can play music from the vast collection downloaded by Sean. But I can’t get into Stella’s world. I can’t begin the new chapters.
But the distant view of the hills of the high Languedoc hills is distracting. And it can get hot here in the afternoons when the best thing to do is to sit under the umbrella and drink whatever comes to hand. A glass of wine rather fits the bill.
I discover - at last - that the best place to write about Stella is my bedroom on the first floor (at one time, perhaps, the salon). It has a quarry tiled floor, floor-length windows with lace panels and a nice big square table now tumbling with notebooks. The geraniums in the window box play host to a butterfly of a species I don’t recognise. As I write I can hear the children playing below in the alley and see across to the house opposite where the builder is working on the renovations. He walks around a lot and smiles up at me, lifting his trowel in greeting.
That’s better. Other parts of the house have their purposes. This table is where the novel will begin to show itself. This is where I’ll get into Stella/Star’s world. And, with luck. this is where the story will grow.