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this is my second post about my ideal writing weekend, which i’m entering into the my ideal writing weekend competition. the first instalment is was in my previous post (just look at the top of this post for the link).
so here i stand in a copse of olive trees, looking down into the water. it’s a craggy, steep cliff that forms a quiet little cove.
“blue! the water is so incredibly blue! no, maybe not blue. turquoise. aquamarine? it doesn’t make any sense to give it the name of just one colour. the ocean below is alive, changing from second to second, reflecting the light of the morning sun here one moment, there the next, streaked through with the movement of tiny fish, shifting sand, and undercurrents, warm, cold, from this direction and that … how can i give all of this just one colour?”
this is what i write into my diary. it’s a beautiful diary, and i’m delighted, because that’s important. writing, to me, is a sensual experience. i love the feeling of paper, and what happens when pen (pencil, brush, marker, quill) touches down and starts moving.
as i stand there, leaned against one of the trees, pen in hand, diary in front of me, i’m wondering what’s going to happen during the rest of the day. sure, i have the itinerary right here (i’m getting hungry, so the “traditional sardinian lunch at 12:00” sounds quite seductive to me at this moment) but – who will i meet? what will i write? what ideas will come out of the community of writers and fishermen and waiters? will there be a community?