Margaret's Shed is a site celebrating a week spent at the Arvon Short Story course at Lumb Bank in May 2013.
About Margaret's Shed (in Margaret's words):
She trips along the flagstone path, her coat billowing behind her. Birds sing, clouds race across the sky; the river's rush sounds up from the valley. A notebook under her arm, she is off to the shed she has made her own.
Such company she has kept this week, so much laughter, so many intense discussions. There is danger, however, in such good company, a risk of social indigestion. the writing shed works for her like a pair of brackets applied to a sentence, to give pause for thought.
Barely large enough for a small table and chair, looking out of the window (missing its glass) it feels to her like a toll-booth. She is certainly paying her dues to the muse.
Noon approaches and her belly growls. Quite forgetting breakfast, she has been in the shed since first getting up that morning.
Inside, the wood of the shed is untreated, unpainted. The raw planks ooze resin, the smell so very evocative of her beloved grandfather.
Fine rain slants across the window. She has witnessed several types of weather during the morning. There had been early sunshine, then a milky sky with herds of clouds passing and revealing sharp bursts of blue. Wind has bent the trees, rain has come and gone, then come again as she steadily writes.
Oh blessed little shed at Arvon...
About Margaret's Shed (in Margaret's words):
She trips along the flagstone path, her coat billowing behind her. Birds sing, clouds race across the sky; the river's rush sounds up from the valley. A notebook under her arm, she is off to the shed she has made her own.
Such company she has kept this week, so much laughter, so many intense discussions. There is danger, however, in such good company, a risk of social indigestion. the writing shed works for her like a pair of brackets applied to a sentence, to give pause for thought.
Barely large enough for a small table and chair, looking out of the window (missing its glass) it feels to her like a toll-booth. She is certainly paying her dues to the muse.
Noon approaches and her belly growls. Quite forgetting breakfast, she has been in the shed since first getting up that morning.
Inside, the wood of the shed is untreated, unpainted. The raw planks ooze resin, the smell so very evocative of her beloved grandfather.
Fine rain slants across the window. She has witnessed several types of weather during the morning. There had been early sunshine, then a milky sky with herds of clouds passing and revealing sharp bursts of blue. Wind has bent the trees, rain has come and gone, then come again as she steadily writes.
Oh blessed little shed at Arvon...