Do you suffer from depression? If so, you’ll know the Black Dog. If not, click here or here before reading on. An Observation on Observation Every writer should be an observer. Every writer should watch the people around them, taking … Continue reading The Art of Observation, Character, Dialogue and Navel Gazing. An occasional post on writing.
So, what exactly happened with the writing of my great Australian novel (and I use the term ‘great’ very loosely)? I don’t have writer’s block*. I know a lot of writers suffer from this, and I am always sympathetic (did … Continue reading The Great Australian Novel. A pondering.
Yet another of my long-overdue university out-takes. Following is an answer to a question about establishing place and setting for stories, that I wrote several months ago for one of my writing subjects. I moved back to my parents’ house … Continue reading Place and Setting. A writing perspective.
She waited as he wasted away. She watched and pined. He watched as well; sometimes TV, sometimes her. She fed him hand-to-mouth. Eventually he refused to eat. As he grew thinner, the drip in his arm pulsed like a marathon … Continue reading The Wait. A short tale.
As Aisha and I ran down the underground corridor, squinting in the dim light, we heard a voice crackling from an old wooden speaker box on the wall. It was Silas. “You can’t escape you know.” We darted to the … Continue reading The Sale. Part 13.
I started a new uni subject today, on writing poetry. Because I have to write a lot of poems for this subject it’s gonna mean a bit of a drought for my blog (normally I post a poem a day). So I’m going to publish a few of my older poems to keep readers going until I have some time to post some new original poems (I can’t post poems from my current uni subject until it’s over, otherwise the plagiarism checker will pick up my own poems on this website lol). So, without further ado, here’s an oldie but … Continue reading Poetry Drought!
Here’s a post I did for a recent uni course. The course is over so I can post it now. The idea was to take a news story and extrapolate what it was about. A man attacked a woman … Continue reading The Real News. A short tale.
My hands were in the air and so was the rock-solid Maglite flashlight. Silas was watching the Mexican standoff in the store room where crazy woman Junifer had confronted Aisha. I threw the torch as hard as I could. It … Continue reading The Sale. Part 12.
The mind of a poetConstructing verseRhythm and rhymeMeter and timeIn all-consuming madness Sonnets, coupletsHaiku, freestyle Diamanté, CinquainPantoum, villanelle Concrete, tanka So many choices and moreTo bring life to blank pages How sensitive you becomeTo your own critiquesAnd how you labour longAt your own expenseTo hide your jewelsBury them in the roots Of the tree you've grown Does anyone care?No matter, you toil onBecause someone out there Will identify, dig deepFind your buried pearlsAnd will smile Because of The mind of a poet Continue reading The Mind of a Poet. A poem.
Insecurity and self deprecationCan't save you when you think this wayWhen the words don't flow Or make it to the pageIn the way you wanted them toMaybe you won't post itBut in the end you doBecause it's good enoughSo read it once more throughYes, it's good enoughGood enough for you Continue reading Good Enough. A poem.
Aisha froze and dropped her phone. The screen cracked on the concrete floor as it bounced at her feet. Across the large, concrete-walled room was Silas, the aged and insensitively tall butler. He was no longer dressed in his servant togs, having changed to a white lab coat and matching trousers, and accessorising with a .38 snub-nosed revolver. Pointing right at Aisha. Being only partly cowardly, I rushed in front to shield her. Having done so I realised perhaps it wasn’t the wisest course of action. My eyes widened. “What the…” “Indeed, John,” said Silas, smiling like a James Bond villain. … Continue reading The Sale. Part 11. A short series.
Climbing down the ladder we came to the ground floor, with the passage leading to the pantry. “Should we stop here?” said Aisha, taking the iPhone out of her mouth and shining the torch light up the dingy corridor. “I really think we need to check out the basement.” I tapped my foot impatiently on the rung above her head. “We don’t know if Crazy Junifer is waiting in the kitchen.” Aisha looked up at me and frowned. “She could be anywhere.” “Can we just get going? The faster we get to the basement the faster we can get out … Continue reading The Sale. Part 10. A short series.
We made it to the floor access. The iPhone torch light reflected off the shiny ladder, floating dust motes and hanging cobwebs. “We’re going down there?” said Aisha. Her face wrinkled in dismay. “I don’t know. It’s bad enough I’m in a dark passage with some stranger…” I slapped my forehead. “Oh, sorry. I’m John. Forgot to introduce myself.” “That’s because you were too busy screaming like a little old lady.” “Yes, well we can’t all be heroes, can we?” “You’re also a hog.” She snatched the cellphone away and shone its light down the ladder recess. “So we have … Continue reading The Sale. Part 9. A short series.
I flung myself off the bed, seeking to extricate my lower leg from whatever was grabbing it. My effeminate scream echoed through the room. “Oh, shut up,” cried a female voice from below. My leg was released and I huddled against the wall under the shuttered window. An attractive African-American woman in her mid-20’s pulled herself from under the bed and stood. She was dishevelled, dressed in what looked like a tie-dyed hippie dress. “Who are you?” I said, eyes wide in disbelief. “I’m Aisha,” said the woman, smiling. “Sorry I scared you. You scream like a girl, you know.” … Continue reading The Sale. Part 8. A short story.
The words flow Like raindrops before the storm Then the downpour No stopping them And why stop? When the muse hits Like a lightning strike All I can do Is write Continue reading Lightning. A poem.
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