‘I didn’t know you were a writer,’ Nedu said, having seen an article in the local Cambrian News.
‘As a matter of fact I’m working on a children’s story set in your house.’
Nedu nodded appreciatively. If ever a place had ghosts, or was evocative, it is the sub medieval house, a Snowdonia house, in the lee of Moelfre above Dyffryn Ardudwy where he grew up – especially when it’s misty.
The tales Nedu told us of his childhood in the house had us alternately laughing like drains, or with our hair on end. His were the hilarious and hair raising exploits that inspired the story. Such as finding unspent bullets from a crashed world war two plane in the hills above his house and putting them on the open fire before beating a swift retreat. Sadly, as often happens, his exploits have not translated well to my written page and another story, using the house as back drop, is slowly, painfully slowly, emerging.
This has nothing at all to do with a second novel I should be working on. Which probably says it all as far as organisation of my writing day goes.
Murielle's Angel 