My ideal beauty is an English countryside in the early summer. It is impossible for me to live that dream, for all kinds of practical reasons, unless I was to suddenly come into possession of significant wealth. (Anyone want to buy my next book for two million dollars? I'll use your name for the heroine.) It is also difficult for me to make a similar dream come true in my home country, because we simply don't have things like oak woods lush with wildflowers, or hedgerows, or the bones of kings and poets beneath our carparks.
But what I can do at least is keep the atmosphere of that beauty within my own heart. I can be myself a flowering wood, a quiet afternoon, a deep well of history and dreaming. I can hold my spirit apart from punga trees and traffic, sticky vines and flowerless gardens. I can refuse to say something is beautiful when I don't feel that it is. Beauty should always remain sacred, true, an ideal, a thing worth fighting for.
It's ironic I should aver this today, considering my latest project is not especially beautiful or dreamy, but is currently a rather wry tale told in a straightforward style, much like the little fairytales I share here. I've spent months focussing on composing poetic loveliness that gets me nowhere; I'm in the mood for a little fun. But there are still bluebells, magic, and morning birdsong in the story, and I hope the substance of it is a beautiful dream even if the style is more prosaic than my wont.