I was fortunate to walk by the sea yesterday in the warmer weather, even out on some rocks with the little waves splashing about them. I have been working on two nineteenth century novels now,one set in England and one in France, both with creative women who must learn how to juggle their art and love. I am surprised how much I have on them and also how far I still have to go. I never know exactly what path they will take until ready to print and, in the final drafts, am always surprised by the detail and the many small characters who emerge as if from the shadows...a strange, mystical process, this novel writing. Are we recollecting and creating at the same time? I never quite know. Sometimes I feel I am looking into a window at people sitting around a table a hundred and fifty years ago and so alive...
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