The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real.
I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle. (Stephen King)
I blog what I like. And sometimes, if you're lucky, I blog what I write.
~ Wednesday, June 20 ~
~ Saturday, April 14 ~
If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough.
~ Monday, March 26 ~
~ Sunday, March 4 ~
I began writing seriously when I was about thirteen. Out streamed poetry, stories and novels, the latter of which were always aborted early, usually half way through the second chapter.
It took my friend Douglas Adams to encourage me to go further and he did this by pointing out that the reason I had never managed to finish a novel was that I had never properly understood how difficult, how ragingly and absurdly difficult, it is to do. “It is almost impossibly hard,” he told me. “It is supposed to be. But once you truly understand how difficult it is,” he added, with signature paradoxicality, “it all becomes a lot easier.”
It was many years later that Clive James quoted to me Thomas Mann’s superb crystallization of this. “A writer,” Said Mann, “is a person for whom writing is more difficult than for other people.” How liberating that definition is.
If any of you out there have ever been put off writing it might well be because you found it so insanely hard and therefore, like me, gave up and abandoned your masterworks early, regretfully assuming that you weren’t cut from the right cloth, that it must come more easily to true, natural-born writers. Perhaps you can start again now, in the knowledge that since the whole experience was so grindingly horrible you might be the real thing after all.
It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.
im still readjusting
I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living; it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.
~ Tuesday, February 28 ~
But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes. People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore.
~ Thursday, January 19 ~
~ Tuesday, January 17 ~