Wilberforce Sunday

I’m sitting in shorts and open shirt, cottage at my back. The air is perfect warmth and perfect breeze. The lake is dotted with fisherman while the late sun conducts a silent fireworks display upon its surface. I’m writing a novella about the marginalized hangers-on of a remote dwindling village, shaken out by industrial mishap and environmental crisis. Where this idea came from, I have not a clue. But it’s a joy to be writing something entirely character-driven as these odd denizens have nothing left but each other, with all of their flaws.