It's been too hot for gallivanting. So, I've been at home, working on a short story that I've been writing all week in my head. I do that when I'm on the subway, or in the ravine with my camera, when I'm at the coffee shop, smiling out the window at some dog, when my phone buzzes another work e-mail that I ignore because, goddammit it, it's my time too.
Most of what I write in my head never makes it onto any page. Those sentences, seemingly perfect, are shed on the walk home, or during the check-out girl conversation. Words just swirl and eddy in front of us like dust motes, anyway, so my wordshedding doesn't mean much at all. It just floats away with the rest.
Yesterday, I pulled Cloud Atlas off my shelf to reread in anticipation of the movie. I'm terrified it will ruin the book entirely and the cast doesn't inspire confidence. But I want to see it... the endeavour alone intrigues me. Right from the first page I was lost in it again.
David Mitchell is the kind of writer who just seems built of entirely different stuff. There are many writers who inspire me to write. But Mitchell makes the whole thing seem pointless; he's in such another world. It's mad to think of him living in Cork. My godmother lives there too. Just David Mitchell in Cork, writing books like Cloud Atlas. No biggie.
But I wish I was outside today and neither writing nor reading, but sitting on a rock somewhere with my feet in water, sandals on wet sand. My camera on my lap bunched in a summer skirt and salt on my lips. In three weeks I'll see the sea. And last night I had a swimming dream.
Products: Hermes camera from Leica | Splendid T-shirt from Net-a-Porter | Envelope Bag Geometrical Illusion from Coriumi | "True blue babe" silk twill skirt from Rittenhouse | Garrett Leight California Optical from Mr Porter | St. Clement's from James Heeley Parfums | Malta sandals from J.Crew