the writer

The Writer. When young, long before the computer was invented, I rented a cabin in the north of Spain, serious and Nordic I wanted to be a writer and brought with me a travel typewriter – you will find one at a technical museum- ready to stun the world. North of Spain is winter cold the wood in the shed was damp gave off smoke and little fire. Daytime not bad a frozen pond and a pair of skates kept me warm. Nights, however, was cold till a flock of sheep was seeking shelter I let them in, soon the cabin was warm if smelly; mucking out in the morning took time. Keeping company with sheep and ice skating is not an ideal intellectual pursuit, to make matters worse I had no ribbons – a sheep ate them- Having read Ernest Hemingway I knew I had to live a little and find my own way of telling a story.