How quickly everything changes! Having written bold statements about abandoning work for letters, I find myself returning – today – to work. An offer too good to refuse, working towards projects for the re-opening of a grandiose old picturehouse, now functioning as an art cinema. In one hour, I will travel to a small café in the centre of town to learn of my role.
Odd that this offer should come when it did, as I was worrying about expenditure and my future travels – how to sustain oneself when you are unregistered, unconnected and do not speak the language. The solution is to earn before I leave, but that seemed unlikely, given the brevity of my time remaining here in springtime England.
However, as I try to leave, various arms hold me. Work has always been synonymous with luck and struggle, for the past few years at least but now I have more offers than I can accept. Hopefully this bodes well for my return, impoverished and sick of narrative, but also it drives division between Cara and I, she being fearful of resignation.
Odd also, that the day I receive this offer, I fall into illness. Awake all night with feverish dreams, I rose at dawn, vomited, and fell into an exhausted sleep. Perhaps this is a warning. Cara barely recognised me, staring shocked as I sat up in bed before mocking my day’s reading:
“Ah, that is he!”
Maintaining my rediscovered fervour for literature is vital. Tasters of what it means to write full-time have left me urgent for more. Last night, a group of us resolved to convert the unfilmable film script into a radio play replete with foley and soundtrack. This can be my evening work, whilst working on the cinema should provide enough distraction to stop me climbing the walls.
Outside, the weather continues to delight everyone, starting - as it does - early and continuing longer than it used to.