In between bouts of rewriting fiction and non-fiction, I have been processing crates of ripe tomatoes. The freezer is full of blamched runner beans, sweet corn and carrots. There are shelves of tomato puree in sterilised Consol glass jars. If I never see another tomato as long as I live, it will be too soon.
In the bad old days I worked hard just to keep my head above water because getting drunk and getting over getting drunk took up so much time and energy. Now hard work has meaning and purpose. It might be tough on the back or the brain, but it doesn’t leave you clutching the rim of the toilet basin each morning or thinking that vodka-inspired incoherent scribbling in a noteboook is the stuff of genius.
For writers and would-be writers, a funny and shrewd breakdown of changes in publishing by Margaret Atwood: