I'm in the midst of rewrites at the moment - taking out bits and pieces, inserting new bits and pieces, and going through each word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter to make sure everything is how I want it. This process sometimes loses me in the past. While the book is a work of fiction, and in no way an allegory for my time in St Andrews (I lived there for 15 years over an 18 year period), it is meant to be as true to the place and the characters as possible. And so when I write and read about the cobbles on the eastern end of Market Street, my toe twitches as I recall the several times I stumbled upon them walking home towards the cathedral.
This morning on the tube I remembered to get off at the right station (Green Park, if you're curious), but as I rode the escalator and turned over in my head a chapter set on the pebbled beach of Castle Sands, I reached the top and had forgotten for a moment why I was at Green Park (it was to taste wine, if you're curious). This sort of losing myself is fine when I'm sat staring at text on my computer screen as my cup of tea gets cold, but can be unnerving on the tube.
I like fiction that I get lost in - I look for a transportative quality in the books I read. I hope very much that as I experience that in the writing (and rewriting) of In Cathedral's Shadow, so too it gets passed on to the reader. And who knows, perhaps some day in the near future, you'll have your nose in my book and wonder why you're stepping off the train at Gunnersbury.
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