a stoep of one's own

I'm currently on a DIY writing retreat at The Artists' Press (a fine art printmaking studio that also has some charming accommodation) near White River in South Africa's Lowveld. A favourite place of mine, in a favourite region.

It's the third time in as many years that I'm renting the farmhouse here for some reading/writing/thinking time. I'm on a bit of a hiatus from Flailing, my novel-in-progress (I recently finished work on its new, final chapter and I want to let things steep and settle for a bit before I return to the manuscript; as Claire Keegan has pointed out, sometimes "you have to be prepared to wait"). It's a little unsettling to be back in a place where I've gotten good work on the novel twice before and to not be working on it. But the time here still feels well spent.

The farmhouse's long stoep is the focal point of my days here. At its dining table, I have been journalling, drafting field notes, brainstorming future PRONK publications and – somewhat begrudgingly – preparing for the open book exam I'm writing here tomorrow for my law master's (eek!). Further along the stoep's polished cement floor is an array of comfy chairs where I read books and daydream while gazing out at the verdant indigenous garden.

I’m not an avid birder but I have a few favourite calls, ones I recognise instantly, ones that leave me fizzing with joy or with a lump in my throat. Among them: the purple-crested turaco (sassy outrage), fish eagles (melancholy), a pair of black-collared barbets (an urgent duet), the emerald spotted wood dove (pretending it’s half-asleep). Late at night: the haunting trills of the fiery-necked nightjar. (I've also been hearing the "Whup! Whuuuuup!" of nearby jackals.) All this makes up my Lowveld soundtrack; the best thing to work (and think) to, really; the aural equivalent of its sloppy, smoky golden light. It's not surprising that I keep coming back.

This is the latest in a sequence of irregular Field Notes from a swimming pool library.