Pandemic plans, plots – and plots

It’s really hard to make plans when the world is upside down, and it’s exhausting. I just wanted to get that off my chest.

My partner and I are currently trying to build a cabin…in a pandemic and in a country different to the one we’re currently in. I realised a year ago this could cause some problems, travel restrictions being one obvious barrier (and illness another…). Unexpectedly, the biggest spanner in the works (pardon the pun) isn’t travel. It is that this year, of all years, timber prices are at an all-time high, throwing all of our quotes and budgets out the window…

Our pretty little plot will have to sit empty for another year, while we hope that the vaccine-rollout goes well and keeps people safe, and for timber prices to drop. All I really want is for us all to be released from limbo and granted some kind of reprieve from all this uncertainty and the damn virus.

In happier plot-related news, I’ve focused on structural edits for my novel and have worked through about a third (woo!) – as well as started planning for a new novel and started on a short story. Yes, I know, I should work on my attention span. The short story is a nice break for my brain though. It’s fun working on a long project, but it does get a bit overwhelming at times, so I’ve enjoyed having a shorter project on the side. The game plan for the summer is to finish structural edits, send it out to be critiqued, and force myself to wait with any new, longer projects until then. And who knows, perhaps by the new year all pandemic-born DYI’ers have decided that building things just isn’t their cup of tea and the price of timber will crash. That would be nice.

Now I’m off to write a short story about a detective and a cracked frame. At least I know how that story ends.

Be safe out there! X

All the lost

He wrote a requiem for all the broken
All the lost and barely breathing
In the chamber
Beneath the light
He wrote of the glory in the fight
To stay alive when the soul is dead
and rise above the crushing dread
And with each line, and dot of ink, he felt his own
He felt his own
But when the light died and his ink was spent,
there was nothing left for all the broken
save all the years of hard devotion
And so he waits now, by the door,
to the land where the living cannot go.
Heart in hand