I am reading too much in a vain effort to make the words come back. Reading of burning girls and betrayal, and boys who watch through window panes as everybody dies. The March’s History for a dash of comfort, milk in tea, although it grows a little safe for me to be truthful. I’ve long wished to be a Jo, up all night with inky fingers, but I’m afraid I shall always be Amy, full of little vanities, pining after French satin ribbon and a perfect nose.

November means early mornings and trying to draw out just three more words to line up a thousand, and none of them worth the paper they’re written on. Cups of tea gone black and cold, and writing on trains until there is a steady avalanche of dialogue slipping off the page. All of this, solely to prove to myself that I am not so small and weak willed, after all.

Dear N.W.

You will be pleased to hear that there are still a family of rabbits in her garden, they are living beneath the roots of an old tree which has grown so as to bend the garden gate. The wysteria keeps the bees company and of course I am sitting on your bench as I write this. You may not think it your bench, for you were never here yourself, but I assure you there are memories trapped in the woodgrain. I could not find the mouse palace, but there was of course the doll’s house and the tiny puddings. You would have loved this house dear N. I can’t really be sure but I think that is why she chose it. I imagine she buried the ring in the garden here, in a secret spot. I hope you have found her now, because the fire burns so merrily in the grate.

With fondness,

S.

Today was washing on the line and the chance of rain and houndstooth skirts and crunchy apples and curling up on the grass beneath the Jacaranda tree in a small pile of blankets to read.

I have a secret love for Spiderwick. It reminds me to look for Stray Sods on our lawn and inspect patches of red clover and leave a little warm milk with honey and bread in the old shell at the bottom of the garden.

I need a new pair of mackintosh boots (we call them Wellingtons) for puddle jumping. However I have two old books and a jar with a cork lid in which I am going to plant a fairy garden to keep on my mantlepiece.

I like reading in the bath, its not a good idea really but its oh-so comfortable and otherwise I fall asleep and I’m slightly afraid of drowning. Picture books are best, you can only get through a few chapters of a novel before the water starts to get cold and your fingers and toes shrivel like prunes. My skin is so pink afterwards, with a rosey glow like a baby.

This is my Bible. Whenever I am feeling sad or lost or lonely I open it up to a page, any page, and read the first paragraph my eyes fall upon. Within I find some solace or beauty or truth that I had forgotton. Today I read this;

Effortlessly proud, graceful as giraffes (even the tallest among them, a kind-eyed Blunderbore), the bowmen moved across the clearing. Last, hand in hand, came a man and a woman. Their faces were as beautiful as if they had never known fear. The woman’s heavy hair shone with a secret, like a cloud that hides the moon.

My Bible was written by a Man, but that gives me a chance to hope that someday, I too, could create something that speaks to the heart within.