A gout-ridden pianist, courting a young lady in Weatherbury, falls in love with a dark-eyed lady farmer. But she is already married.They live in a hovel on the heath. But having surprisingly met her grandfather in an inn, their horse collides with the Night Mail. Just one of life's little ironies.I'm not quite sure it's one of life's little ironies, but I can't write fiction, for reasons I can't quite figure out. I suspect it's because I have no sense of a tight plot -- this random plot sound fascinating to me! Or perhaps I prefer an eye on "what is" or perhaps the role of Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "reporter from outer space."
“If you would be a poet, write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, ﬁling dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance for bullshit.”
— from Poetry as Insurgent Art