Time to leave this magical place and drive back to Paris tomorrow. Which may not be a bad thing as the magic seems to have deserted me. I got to the middle of Chapter 20 when the major crisis of confidence hit. That was three days ago. And since then, not a word. I don't even want to look at it anymore. It's only my supremely rational mind (or what's left of it) that keeps me from hitting the delete button.
So back north I go, towards the Icelandic ash, with a gorgeous tan and a still very much unfinished attempt at a novel.
I want my six months back.