How I wish I'd had a chat with my svelte younger self about eating healthily and told them to keep an eye on things. All too soon, your pert breasts and your taut butt take off on their journey south without you realising.
I watched the sunrise yesterday, as I often do. My writing day starts at dawn. It’s the time of day my brain seems to creatively engage. I threw back the curtains to greet the dawn on the day that marked yet another year since my arrival on the planet.
With just 41 days and counting... nobody said leaving the EU was going to be easy, but nobody said it was going to be a complete musical hall farce either.
After three and a half years of my life and 92,000 words, I'm not going to allow my novel to wallow in the slushy stigma of rejection and, whatever it takes, I'm going to make it grabbable.
I've known about the Two Minute Grab Zone for quite some time and it's time I got to grips with it.
Portugal, for me, is sensory overload; whatever the time of year and after visiting for twenty-six years, it is time to make it my home.
I don't think my mother read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published at eleven when she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire's answer to William Wordsworth. Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.
Capturing the essence of a 90,000 words (±) novel is a bloody nightmare. We spend weeks, months and years, scripting stories, creating characters, in 500; is a bloody nightmare. Or is it because and I'm trying too hard too hard in my attempts to wow a potential agent?
I am someone who is a firm believer in drawing a line under things from the past, you can't go back and change them, so there is no point dwelling on them. But... I do dwell on one thing though and that is not finding out more about family members who either died before I was... Continue Reading →