I'm currently about two thirds of the way through Red Dog, Red Dog. Written by the Canadian poet Patrick Lane, it seems like every sentence drips with insightful and enriching metaphor. Despite portraying a sparse, arid landscape, the prose is achingly rich, drawing pictures in the dirt. Jon McGregor calls it a 'shock of a novel' and he's right. I shall post a review once I've reached the end. I've made time for it each night before sleep, even though recent days have proved hectic work wise - suddenly inundated with copywriting work (see my new work website here). Where has my PhD novel gone? It's still there, waiting for me to reconnect and draw more pictures in the dirt to alleviate the sinking apathy that characterises it in other parts. Luckily I'm off to Suffolk this weekend, when I shall aim to do just that.

Popular posts from this blog

Who was Mary Burns?

An Enemy of the People - Chichester Festival Theatre

Five Finger Exercise - The Print Room, Notting Hill