That, I thought, would be where my stories would come home.
A couple of tiny story competitions (25 - 100 words).
Write a 250-word story without using the letter "e".
I'd rather yank out my own stitches than miss a chance to read with children, but I also need to belong.
Late middle English, OBVIOUSLY.
The other day I looked at my grey hair and receding gums and thought, I’m sure I was about twenty last time I checked. Or thirty. Either way, this weird little middle-aged face is something new. I also thought, it’s been an age since I had a story published, and I should get on with …
I’ve heard a lot about ‘plotters and pantsers’ — there are enough articles (sss, ssss), and obviously my favourite would be this one, but that’s not how I write. My stories come fully formed. They arrive. They filter through the clouds, fall through the clear bit between the clouds and me, plonk themselves in my head …
"Why would you start on a career if it’s not just impossible, but improper, to expect payment?"
So, you know that scene in Bridget Jones when she turns up to a party dressed as a bunny girl? I’m one of those people. I could drink black coffee for years, or live on a diet of champagne and mineral water, but when the Queen pops round for tea, she’ll catch me sucking evaporated …
I've dropped some flowers onto the blog.
A one-book deal might produce about £5,000. Maybe. Or nothing. Or a million.
In terms of writing, I don't believe that age limits... anything at all.
We watched a bumble bee fly out to sea and I asked him to explain how the bumble bee flies and he cracked a joke.