When I think about the current state of my novel (is it even a novel anymore? That’s a question for another day!), these words of Henry Miller spring to mind:
Meanwhile, it’s now the start of autumn in Tasmania, which means tomatoes are ripe and plentiful. My parents came round today with a crate for me - they drove to a pick-your-own-farm half an hour out of the city where these beauties were a steal at $2 a kilogram.
I washed and chopped several kilograms of them and was reassured that, even though my mind is a constant whirl of what the fuck am I doing with this novel or whatever it’s turned into and how is this ever going to work, if I put tomatoes, onions, garlic, thyme, oregano, basil, wine and stock in a slow cooker, put it on high for four hours and walk away, I will come back and it will have turned into a thick, rich and delicious sauce. There is also now an open bottle of wine.