What a great end

Two endings today.  They happened almost simultaneously.  Firstly the tree men (and, appropriately, there are three of them) lopped my flowering cherry.  In my garden I have the most beautiful tree.  I can see its topmost branches from my bed and in the spring and summer I can imagine myself far away from the urban sprawl, lost in a glory of blossom, leaves and birds.  I now have to say that I used to be able to see it from my bed.  I feel very sad to have replaced the pink and white froth of spring and emerald green of summer with a clearer view of the leylandii and houses behind me.  I have to console myself with the thought that I am now my neighbour's favourite person and at least the garden will get some sunshine this summer instead of the permanent shade we lingered in last year.

The other ending came in the shape of the book I finished, Edmund de Waal's The Hare with Amber Eyes, (2010, Chatto & Windus).  I bought it for my Dad this Christmas, but he gave up on it pretty early on, which is a shame.  He's back to his usual fare of Ken Follet, so maybe it was just not to his taste.  My Mum, however, loved it and I nabbed it from her when I realised it would be perfect as part of my reading for Life Writing.  There were many aspects of this book I liked.  Firstly, it was difficult to know if I was reading a family history told through the art they collected, or the story of a collection told through the eyes of the family that bought and owned them.  The family themselves were fascinating to read about - a real who's who of fin de siecle Paris and the changes that they and their collection survived to take them up to present day.  The writing is really good and the last couple of chapters where the author also questions what the nature of the book is, what biography is about and what he has discovered about himself and his family through this process is thought-provoking and refreshing.  There are quotes I will be taking away with me to use on my course and will inform my own perspective.  I think the other aspect of this book that spoke to me was that his forebears came from the same place as mine, Odessa in Russia.

When I started Creative Writing with the OU, I read as a reader, got lost in the story and didn't notice the craft behind what I read.  Now, increasingly, I find I read as a writer and it has opened up a new dimension for me.  Its a little like watching a swan swim - I used to see just the elegance of the effortless glide across the water.  Now I notice the feet paddling like mad under the surface.