SO you’re not the type of creative who fancy walking around graveyards to read inscriptions on gravestones in order to stir your creative juices.
No problem. You can seize story ideas without leaving home, and NOT in front of your computer either.
All you need are physical reading materials, i.e. books, newspapers, magazines, travel brochures, manuals, and even promo leaflets of all sorts.
If you do not have any or many of the above, then sorry to say but you are not a writer.
Writers read, and read a lot. …
LIFE for most dog owners became more bearable during the COVID-19 lockdowns in the UK.
For one, man’s best friend contributed to its owner’s mental and physical health.
Studies after studies showed that petting, caring for and playing with pet dogs reduce stress hormones.
For another, a dog owner’s health is boosted by the daily walks that the pet needs.
Dogs also provided their owners a reason to go out for an hour’s worth of exercise. …
Writing for fun sounds fleeting to me
But writing for money and glory -
Ah, there’s the delicious and pragmatic cherry
On top of a lifetime’s writer fantasy!
For what writer with 150k words in print
After toiling for months, even years on end, and skint
And waiting for more months, even years, of publisher’s hint
Not jump a trampoline whoopee, dreaming of mint?
Not I, not I, said the writer claiming to write for fun I write for myself, for me and no-one else, when I’m done I write for fun and what is wrong with that one …
I AM big on hopes.
But there are hopes, and then again, there are hopes.
Like hoping for the primroses and violas that suffered snow and frost and rain to survive.
Or hope for the return of the couple of tits that, last spring, made the nesting box in our garden their home.
But the one huge hope that I have, for the past many years, is to mollify what has been on my mind: murder.
THIS frightful thought sprung on my mind as quick as a heartbeat one fine summer day. I was on Skype on a video call…
He was as dark as a deep midnight
His gloss, darker still against the blind streetlight
His coat, as thick and rich as carbonite
His eyes so kind, so soft; his name is Midnyte.
THE first time our eyes met, I screamed the scream of my life. The scream was only in my head, but the fright I felt shocked my senses.
I had never eyeballed such an ugly, ugly creature!
The creature was tiny, it's head and body bald except for a few strands of hair standing on its end. …
Faith is a gift.
A person of faith can weather most emotional storms and can cling tightly to hope, no matter how fragile, even in the face of imminent death.
But what happens when one loses Faith?
I haven’t lost my faith. I still describe myself as Catholic although non-practicing. And for a long time now, I see myself as spiritual instead of a clinger of Catholicism and its dogma.
My family and kin grew up in this faith. They were not fanatics, just ordinary church-going people, heeding the prescribed doctrine as laid out by those who interpret the same.
(Note: For anonymity, all the *names have been changed. The name of some of the places and **countries mentioned have also been changed into codes.) In my long and eventful life as a writer, there had been a few instances in which I moonlighted. For a couple of months, mornings only, I co-managed an Internet Café that my teenage daughter, a budding entrepreneur, established across the road from the university where her elder sister was teaching. Twice in one year, I acted as a buyer of Philippine woodcraft for export for my Canadian friends, a couple who had a large…
Never have I shared my personal experiences regarding that contentious word, racism, until now. Sure, I was displeased at the time. It was, nonetheless, transitory as my peace-loving nature was more tenacious.
Looking back, however, should I perhaps have made a fuss and used the racism card? But again, that would be contrary to my placid nature. I was never one to raise the so-called racism card to whinge and whine.
I lived and worked in New Zealand for some years. To get to the University of Auckland where I worked, I took the 434 bus from South Auckland to…
Anyone with a beating heart can get creative in a graveyard. I’m not referring to a fancy, unconventional burial of the dead. On the contrary. And make no mistake, this article is for the living.
I’m also not referring to couples who, for whatever urgent need, choose the seclusion of a graveyard (or memorial park or remembrance park) to do what they must. Talk, perhaps? Hold hands?
And not to be unsympathetic, I also am not referring to an unfortunate segment of society, the homeless, who might get creative and make a temporary “home” in an empty tomb.
Once upon a time —
My husband served Queen and country
He said it was his duty
To protect other people’s liberty.
Nothing wrong in that —
Safeguarding civilians from terror
Unleashed by terroristic behavior
He’s the protectorate’s selfless protector.
And off he went with mates —
To the land of camels, sand and sun
Patrolling towns, seeking terror groups as one
No doubt, heavy encounters were no fun.
As once upon a time —
No Internet, no Skype, no Face Time or FB
Connecting to home was through military
So receiving letters to and fro merited a crikey.
Writer, editor, storyteller, content creator; now enjoys writing sans the stress of multiple deadlines.