"I didn't know you wrote," said one of the guys at work today.

It used to be that I was known for little else except writing, me with my notebook compulsively in hand, scribbling on the bus, at lunch, wherever and whenever an idea surfaced ( Read more... )

This is all I've managed to write in the last three days.

Margaret Threshold decided she would write the novel herself. The ream of paper had been sitting on the kitchen counter all week, bleak and cruel in its blankness; when at last, inevitably, the breeze coming in from the window above the sink had sent the first few pages scattering across ( Read more... )

It's November. It's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I've signed up for the challenge of writing 50,000 words in a single calendar month for the third year in a row ( Read more... )

Sylvie was waiting twitchily for one of them to pay, her small brown hand outstretched just enough to indicate that while this was the service industry and she was obliged to show at least a modicum of politeness, she couldn't be fucked waiting around all day for his six dollars fifty. The corner of Carrie's mouth made a little upward twitch, the ( Read more... )

Where to go and what to do on afternoon she had not expected to have to herself? At a loss, she wandered through the shopping centre, bought herself a blueberry smoothie (sublime), and a cheese naan from one of the Indian diners (which she took one bite out of and then dropped it into the nearest bin). But in the long afternoons of daylight savings ( Read more... )

The droning of the tattoo gun could become hypnotic if you were working on a large enough section of colour. The back and forth between ink cap and tight-stretched portion of skin, sponging the slow ooze of blood away from newly fashioned pin-pricks, working the tiny pixels of colour into the living canvas. Here was one case where it definitely ( Read more... )

My parents had a swimming pool in their back yard ( Read more... )