Fox on a Boat

Edward Thomas was born on the 3rd of March 1878 in Brixton, Lambeth and was an Anglo-Welsh writer of prose, turning to poetry only in 1914 after being encouraged to do so by Robert Frost, whom he met in 1913, and was to become very close to. So close, in fact, that he would become, in Thomas's eyes, the "saviour" he had once prophesied would help him: "I feel sure that my salvation depends on a person, and that person cannot be Helen [his wife] because she has come to resemble me too much." Edward Thomas reviewed books and was a respected biographer and literary critic, often reviewing up to 15 books every week, and spending many hours a day writing to earn enough to feed his family. He thought that poetry was the highest form of literature, and wrote his first five poems between the 3rd and 7th of December 1914, writing a total of 140 poems in just two years. In the summer months, as the war began, Thomas began to think of more than just poetry. As he walked

I am not a writer. Let me explain. I've always loved writing, but I'm not a *writer*, I had fantasies as a kid that I would write a book. No less. In fact I told everyone I'd be an author when I grew up. It is well known that growing up also involves killing dreams. I am not a writer, and do not have a novel in me, I simply do not have a story to tell. I wanted to be wrong, I really did. This November I set out to do Na-No-Wri-Mo: National Novel Writing Month. It sounds rather simple: write 50,000 words in a month. New material, do not continue on a previous novel. I did not have a previous novel to be working on anyway, so I did start fresh. Well I am 36,000 words in and this novel is complete literary trash, no kidding. I have a sort of plot, rather vague and boring, the subplots are mundane if not nonexistent, I add lots of unnecessary description to feel as if my novel is growing, but quite honestly, it's just not. It's bits of writing here in there, hardly any