It is HOT here in France. Complete-body-soaked-in-sweat, brain-melty kind of hot. It makes me realise how much I need certain comforts to be able to produce writing better than:

“It is hot,” said Fred.

“Yes,” said Anna. “It is hot.”

“Indeed,” said Fred.

They sat and it was hot.

Isn’t that just a thrill ride of non-stop excitement?

I was actually thinking about George R R Martin and his need to be at home at his computer to be able to write (something which I heard or read somewhere, but can’t confirm right now because it is really hot). Whether this is true or not, I remember when I learnt it, I was indignant. I can write ANYWHERE, I said indignantly (because I was indignant). Just give me a laptop and somewhere to sit and I am set! The words will flow!

Yesterday, I had both of those things but the only thing that flowed was the sweat in my armpits. My brain refused. No words came out.

So, sorry, George, for being indignant. I was young and foolish.

The last section of the children’s book I am writing at the moment is coming along slowly. I have been battling this section for a while now, and I would say that it is about seventy-five percent complete. The last twenty-five percent may have to wait until I am back home in the comfortable cold, grey of Wales.

Mais, pour le moment, je vais m’asseoir dans le frigo !

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