wind — Body of Work

At times, there is a story for every occasion. I just must remember not to tell the same one twice. At other times there is nothing.

Writing fulfils me, but I do not profess to be any good.

Writing makes me happy as much as it tends to frustrate.

Selfishly, I did not set out for people to read my column.

"Think I've nailed it this week," I proclaim to Mrs W.

"You say that every week," she laments.

And that's why readers owe me nothing.

Here's to the next 150.

When the Wind Blows

Geoffrey Dyer is dead.

He painted Richard Flanagan and won the Archibald Prize in 2003.

I am reading Flanagan's new novel.

Artists and writers inspire me: their craft, their dedication, their toil, and their need.

They are like old friends.

I had a glass of something with Dyer and a glass of something else with Flanagan in a bar on Salamanca.