I believe the edges of things are far more interesting than their faces. Give me an edge and I’m interested, a corner? Even more so. It is in these intersections where the magic happens, where boundaries are weakened and one plane blurs into another.

I am talking of doorsteps, beaches, births, rivers, and caves. Of deaths, cliffs, borders, paths, and marriages. Crossroads, bridges, piers, dreams, towers, and tombs.

These are the makings of story.


A Sketchbook From the Past

Last week my sister bought a few boxes of books from a local auction.  It was clear these were part of a house clearance, someone’s library  broken up and placed in banana boxes to be thumbed over and bid upon.  The thought sends a strange creeping sensation down my spine, wondering if this will one day happen to the thousands of books I have collected.

However, my family love books.  Always have.  I dread to think how many we have on our collective shelves.  Many of mine are currently in storage, or leant out to another sister, waiting  a recall when I have somewhere large enough to put them back out on view.

I did quite well out of this auction, despite not going.  If you buy a box of books, it is unlikely you will want all of them. Some will go to the local charity shops but others were claimed by me, or my parents, or sisters.  Mine are mostly non-fiction (this time), cookery books, gardening books, books on sculpture and art, books on building your own guitar and a very early copy of Robert Service’s poetry.  I was pleased with this haul.