It's not just a job, it seems...
Back from the land of baguettes and fromage, terrifying drivers, marvellous wine for £2 a bottle and siestas that seem to last most of the daylight hours, I've encountered mountains of work on a par with with beautiful Cevennes I've returned from, hence the lack of blog entries recently.
Switching my brain from French to English has been far easier than switching it off at night, and recently my sleep has been invaded by my work. I find myself typing my dreams out (!) and then copy-editing the written dream, followed by a meticulous proofread.
They say if you eat and sleep writing, you're a writer. I've certainly ticked one of the boxes now, but am slightly concerned about the other - perhaps I will soon find myself trundling back from the supermarket with bags full of Alphabetti and Alphabites, and spend my mealtimes writing marketing material out of pasta and articles out of potato shapes.
Switching my brain from French to English has been far easier than switching it off at night, and recently my sleep has been invaded by my work. I find myself typing my dreams out (!) and then copy-editing the written dream, followed by a meticulous proofread.
They say if you eat and sleep writing, you're a writer. I've certainly ticked one of the boxes now, but am slightly concerned about the other - perhaps I will soon find myself trundling back from the supermarket with bags full of Alphabetti and Alphabites, and spend my mealtimes writing marketing material out of pasta and articles out of potato shapes.
