We’re in the lurgy/infection/fevers season. I’ve been nursing a bout of badness and sharing tips for writing when ill. I am the snotty, fatigued gift that keeps on giving. Note: I’m not a doctor. Don’t sue me.
Writing the second novel in a series is both exciting and scary. You learn a lot about yourself. Mainly what a doubting, weird, procrastinator you are. Brace yourselves for ‘second novel problems’.
I am rubbish sometimes at recognising my progress. I am more likely to list all my failures. Who better to teach you all about how to acknowledge your own progress? Yes, I know. Let’s call it therapy.
A fresh circle of hell was created for editing. Give yourself a break, fellow writers, and read this post about editing. Yes, there’s no escape.
Preparing to go down a publishing path, whether it’s traditional or self-publishing, is a long and sometimes complicated venture. Let’s support each other in it, not tear each other down.
With age comes wisdom. Believe that and you’ll believe anything. What age has done for me though is shown that striving for perfection is a fruitless and tiring exercise.
A letter to my mum on the first anniversary of her death. The void is wide, the memories help but I miss her more than these words can express. Life without your mum is a strange thing.
I love certain words and phrases. If I could, I’d fill my writing pieces with them but that would be a dull shenanigan, from a numpty cockwomble, who’s blagging this blogging malarkey.