After several months of wallowing in a dry well of creativity, on the 23rd May I started a draft of my story (the one I’m commissioned to write for the Taiwanese movie director), which I would go on to finish on the 25th June (my birthday).
My wife had been up, potting her plants, for a good 30 minutes, when she barged into the bedroom.
“We’ve caught one!” she yelled, and then vanished from the room.
She meant a rat.
I have an annoying tendency to edit and reedit as I’m writing my story. I say it’s annoying, but in actual fact I love doing and can’t imagine not doing it.
As is my wont, I stuck in my earphones, and scrolled down my Watch Later list on YouTube, to see if anything tickled my fancy. Something did tickle my fancy…
This happened yesterday.
I was writing my current book and had no idea what was going to happen next.
I started to think of all the people who have told me that they would like to write a book but don’t know where to start… continue
OK, here goes.
First, I’ll make myself a cup of black tea.
No, green tea.
Where’re those biscuits?
There’s something incredibly nerve-racking about starting to write a new project.
I turn into the king of procrastination before the first word is typed.
The boy was kneeling in the mud, hands clasped, eyes shut. His lips were murmuring a plea for rain.
His father pulled him up by an ear.
“Mum, do you want to see me turn into a dog?” A short flash-fiction piece.
I shook off the coating of snow from my shoulders, and blew into my hands.