Friday, November 16, 2012

A sort of working week

This week, a workshop in academic writing for students at West Dean college in Chichester, former home of Edward James, the corridors once walked by Salvador Dali....his lips sofas are covered up against moths but the lobster telephone's on view, behind glass.

Then Goldsmiths where I'm doing half a day a week on life writing with undergraduate students.

A review for Warwick Review, sent off.

An NUJ training conference tomorrow on making the most of digital opportunities.

Some extra Open University marking for a tutor who's unwell. Checking the students' forum, my second online tutorial. Only one student's posted anything - three have sent apologies. Does that mean they won't be participating at all? Ever?

Admin, admin and more admin. An invoice. A cheque because the bank messed up a direct debit. Making dates for meetings. Research into residencies.

Trying to write but failing to write anything worth looking back on. Resisted ripping out the pages. Wondering how people write so beautifully and sparely. Wondering what drives people to write. What love means.

Walking in the fog this morning, Roxy disturbed two pheasants. That reminded me of the start of the West Dean workshop - a line of people on a slope opposite the house, a volley of gun shots. Another. Guns pointing in to the woods. Realising I need to get out more.

At last I have a card to get into Goldsmiths library where I teach one of the groups. Walking to the old town hall where my other group meets, I saw two speakers pointing out of the window of a flat onto the road, broadcasting a man's voice. Later I met Jacky Hyams, an old friend who I reconnected with after hearing her interviewed about writing a history of women Spitfire pilots. More emails today. Now out. Back into the fog.