Holy Sweet Jeebus, what the hell just happened over the past two weeks? Who was that masked man? The one who swooped in, picked up my quiet little writing life and slung it over his broad shoulders (but not too broad though, and they have that nice definition of muscle that catches all the droplets of water in the shower and directs them down over his hairless, heaving chest and onto the greatness that lies below….) Sorry, drifted off a little there in between my brackets. (more…)
The many words I’ve written on many pages are going off to be sent off and scrutinised, discarded, red-carded, rearranged and tut-tutted. Or as commonly known, edited. I am going full adult. Hiring professionals. Getting invoiced. Peeps, I’ve been given a DEADLINE. I’ve adulted myself right in the kahunas.
So I have recovered from last weeks little red-cheeked dummy spit. I am once again the epitome of calm. A picture of serenity.
There must be one hell of a sale on these little gems because every soggy blighter has one.
There are those who like to wield their opinion like a rusty broadsword dipped in rabies-juice and rolled in rainbow sprinkles of bubonic plague. They jab their colourful little swords, digging in deep, laughing at their keyboards, enjoying being mean for the sake of it. The internet has been to trolls what the cane beetle was to the cane toad. Glorious opportunity.
Some places speak to you as a writer. They can say things like ‘Hello, I am your imagination’s nirvana and I will inspire you to heights of true writing mastery.’ Often it’s more like ‘Stop walking round and round this library cause it’s exam time and you have jack-shit chance of getting a better seat than that one over by the automatic doors and the garbage bin. Sit down for the love of god, you could have written the Bible by now. In three languages.’
Sometimes the places don’t say anything at all. They don’t need to, because they are the god damn Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth lovechild of places. They are the ‘Look at me I am GLORIOUS’ of locations.