ABSTRACT
I have great difficulty starting and finishing pieces of writing. I’ve brought this one away with me to Italy in order to restart it. I’ve already torn up three rough drafts.
I’m sitting in the hot garden of a seventeenth century house, a mountain at my back and an abyss just beyond the gate; I’ve no access to libraries or to reference books. But this is a possible site for romance. Desire, I decide, is the key to unlocking the flow of words. I’ve always wanted to be able to talk to Christine de Pisan,f and here she is, sitting opposite me in the shade of a huge blue lavender bush fizzing with bees.
