My writing process is in my title. Procrastinate Ad Eternum. Yes, that’s me.
Why am I telling you this?
Because in this week’s Trifecta challenge we were asked to describe our writing process in three words.
Because one of the Trifecta editors has recently been lucky enough to have been present in the aura of Neil Gaiman, who happens to be my favouritest author in the whole wide word. In the Q&A that followed the reading of the Master’s third chapter of the new book The Ocean at the End of the Lane, the Reigning Monarch in Fictiondom was asked “Can you tell us your writing process in three words?”
His Awesomeness replied, “Glare. Drink tea.”
That was a cool and insightful question to ask the Conqueror of the Pen, and I wish it came to me when I met His Greatness at the 2011 Fringe Festival. Alas, that is not how my rendezvous with my idol in fantasy fiction went. And if you want to know how it did go, read on. Continue reading
Today ten years ago, I started life. And you were there. We met on the sand, next to the bonfire that the others lit up; do you remember? Our eyes first met while yours were smiling and mine were rolling upwards in disdain – all those school notes and books burning for our entertainment; I couldn’t stand it, the folly of it all. But you came over, round the bonfire, and told me not to worry. We talked all night after that. Every little detail that our minuscule span of experiences gave us subjects to talk about, we touched them all. I knew everything there was to know about you by the time the last embers died out; all except your name. We forgot to exchange those; we were that enthralled. Do you remember?
Ten years passed since then
And we are still together
You and I my friend
Your wisdom dazzled me.
Admiration came easy.
I knew nothing.
You taught me everything.
* Continue reading
The day was searing hot, the kind of suffocating heat that only the Mediterranean can conjure before nine o’clock in the morning. The children were dragging their reluctant feet away from the beach at their backs and towards a set of old staircase at the top of the hill. Continue reading
I heard my stage call and began my role
In the play that comes with no lines or plot.
Act the first started. I drowned in holy love;
And burdened by duties I was
That would win me heaven when the curtain falls.
I remember very clearly when my brother was born. I was three years old at the time. Although as young as I was, his birth is not my first memory. My first memory is from when I was one, and my poor-helpful self tried to assist my mother in the kitchen by reaching up and grabbing a steaming bowl of soup from the cupboard and attempted to place it on the table. I then went on to drop the bowl and stabbed my finger with a long piercing glass. The memory scene fades after that and is replaced by the feeling of a hoarse throat as I attempted to scream my guts out, a green door, and clinking of keys hovering on top of my head as I lay on my back in a strange room and a face covered by a mask looked on at me. The scar on my left pinky still lives to this day – a constant reminder of my heroics. Continue reading
So far I have flatly refused to write anything about Christmas, despite the fact that Christmas lights have been sprouting about my home town since the first week of November. November isn’t Christmas month, it is birthday month, my own that is and so Christmas has no business butting in on my month.
Today though, this here the first day of December, Christmas month has officially been launched and to mark the event I am here posting the ten things I am most looking forward to over the coming thirty days while Frank Sinatra is putting me in the mood with his collection of Christmas carols. Continue reading