Reading and writing and rain

Today it really feels as though summer is over. I woke to the sound of heavy rain on the roof: a brief but dense shower which means I did not have to worry about watering the garden and pot plants. I had been warm during the night, so much so that I had thrown off my duvet, but I felt cold at 4:30 AM. My alarm went off at seven, but I snuggled down in the half dark and dozed, listening to the news bulletins and then the morning classical music program. Of course I did get up eventually, rubbing the grits of sleep from my eyes, brushing the night breath from my teeth, scrambling through my knicker drawers for clean undies, and dragging on the relatively clean clothes I had warned last night. After all there was no need to dress for anyone: B is away enjoying the subtropics of Noosa, leaving me in some peace and quiet so that I can get on with my first lot of assignments of the year.

I took the car in for a service, and whiled away my waiting time reading Jeanette Winterson's "Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit". I'd started this last night, and was so captivated by it, that after I got back from having the car serviced, I continue to read it until I had finished it. I then spent an hour or two searching the Internet and the online facilities of my university library to find out more about Ms Winterson and in particular this book. I had read it when it first came out or soon after, and while I had remembered the bones of the story, and had remembered how excited I had been by the way in which it was written I had forgotten all the details-both of the story, and of the style.

I do so admire the ability that some people have to critique a written work. I know I am going to use "Oranges" in one of my assignments, so as I read I try to look beneath the surface, to identify technique, and elements of style. I try in my mind to articulate what it is that is going on, how it is that this writer manipulates images and emotions and ideas. I try to identify the metaphors and the symbolism, but mostly I just get caught up in the story. I know that there is more to the story than just the story, and I know that my thinking is expanded by works of this quality as opposed to just merely entertained and amused. At least I think my thinking is expanded or it may just be that I recognise in some writers' works things that I have always known or felt or believed, but have never been able to say.

But then I read other people's commentaries and find that they see other things, some little, some large, as well is seeing some of the things that I see. And some of these critics write so clearly about their interpretations that I feel there is no point in me writing mine, they have already said it and much more besides. So I struggle in my essays sometimes, to find and clearly articulate a new idea, because I really cannot see the point in merely re-presenting what has already been said by others, and said so well. After all, I have not gone back to uni merely to acquire a degree - I have gone back to develop and grow my own thinking and writing capabilities.