Something had clearly gone wrong in the interface between me and my computer a couple of days ago, for the work that I had done most recently on my piece was nowhere to be found. As somebody who tends to back up assiduously and then back up the back ups this was a rarity but it was enough to put me on the back foot, and with no chance of reaching that piece’s particular deadline.

I took the decision that I really should have taken a few days ago and parked the sketches in my In Progress folder, which is where all those fragments and unfinished sections live. In the future it may turn out to be of use, but for now it will sit there with all the other broken bits and pieces.

At the very least my work on this particular piece has shown me that I have a significant blind spot in at least one area of my writing, one that needs to be addressed if I am to attain the fluency that I desire. Although in some ways that means going back to the drawing board and taking my writing apart, it also means that I can sit back and listen to a few CDs (yes, I still own these) and call it work.

I used to listen all the time back in the day, but find now that I cannot simply let music pass me by if I am at all interested in it, that my brain is constantly picking up on stratagems and tricks, trying to learn from everything it hears. It is easier for me to have nothing on at all if I am doing something else instead of going back time and time again to restart from the moment where my attention lapsed.

I should really be listening to some Penderecki, in honour of the great man’s passing a couple of days ago, all but unnoticed in the coronamadness, even if I was much more of an admirer of his avant-garde phase than the later neo-Romantic works, and, even then, much more in awe of his countryman and contemporary Witold Lutosławski, whose name regular readers of this blog will recognise. I have stayed in Poland this morning, though, and am indulging in some Szymanowski, a box set I bought back in that olde worlde in which we could go to shops and buy such things. Incidentally, my mother’s side of the family line has been traced back to a Jacobus Szimansky in Galicia in the early 1800s, but that is a story for another time.