I read William Trevor’s seemingly simple prose and ache to learn. It is an aching. An aching to find a voice that is true. I can apply the same principles to all that I do, that of not reaching to be more than I am. To just tell the story as succinctly as I can. It is enough. It is always enough. She was articulate. Does that make my job harder or easier? It is difficult to say. Let her tell it. I am but a conduit. That is all and that is enough.
A grey start. The morning light struggles to make itself known. A mizzly rain, hardly there at all.
I think I am sanguine about the pandemic but it invades my dreams.