A poetic apology for spending so much time struggling with a book that the writer has had no time to whisper sweet nothing's to his love.
I put on an old record, Unloved for many a year, Tucked behind a memory, Stood against a wall...
A poem about lost opportunity
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Yona is a slave, held in a cold, lightless room in the North Hoar Ridge of Bind. When she and her friends have the opportunity to escape, they are helped by an amazing, huge beast that carries them across the continent.
Oh, do we love Sundays? Sundays at one point were my favourite day. I always had the day off and so did my love. We used to sleep late, be silly (mandatory), drink way too early in the day (like breakfast time) and basically be ourselves. It was our time to do with as we wished.
Here is a poem...
Before you get too hung up on mapping out your towns in detail for your latest epic, painting in all the walls, working out population sizes and so on, you need to understand what a town or village is and why you are there in the first place.
Often an impression of a place will be far more helpful than facts and figures.
Sometimes we think we know people, especially old relatives. We think we know their lives, their memories, what is important to them.
But we don't
This is a story about an old man and a very important memory.
Trying to get dialogue perfect in any kind of writing can be hard work and is something I often fight with, even though I love doing it.
In my mind, dialogue should be natural and flow, which probably means it is not natural at all. What a conundrum!
As a bloke, unless I decide to write a book exclusively about men, I have to write female characters. But sometimes men are criticized for not really understanding what a woman is, let alone being able to get to the depths of the character.
Is this fair? Can a man write a convincing female lead?
I think the term tomboy does little to explain the joy of the girl who just likes to "go for it!"
I remember a friend when I was in my late teens who was regarded as a bit of a tomboy. She was so little understood by both girls and boys of our age group, and yet she was far more "female" if you like than anyone else I knew. She just liked climbing trees. So, here is a poem.
Johnson Farthing shifts Dirt for a living. That is his lot. The bottom of the pile with no future, no expectations and no reason to think anything is going to change.
And then, his sister is kidnapped and his world is turned on it's head.
A poem about strangers who meet and talk, drink some wine, share ancient memories and regrets, talk about the loves they have had and where they went wrong. And slowly they realise how similar they are.
I have decided to clean up and release the OneNote notebook template I use for planning Novels.
OneNote is perfect for this kind of work and is now free - how kind.
Whatever the publicists tell you, writing should always be primarily selfish - if you are not writing for yourself, then what is the point?
Part of my fun is letting myself fall into the trap of a sub-plot or an aside; a little journey away from the main thrust.
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North London, 1976. The longest, hottest summer on record. The water is running out and the kids hate their parents. Which bunch of idiots would think it is a good idea to start a band?