Publishing a book bears a remarked resemblance to being stuck in a hole and yelling “Hello? Can anybody hear me?” Just because the book is there, it doesn’t automatically sell itself, nor do reviews start pouring in from right left and center. Okay, okay; my book is still a baby, a mere two or three […]
Lately, Ms Inspiration has not been much help. Not so that she doesn’t spout ideas – she most certainly does, especially around three o’clock in the morning – but her attention span is the size of a newt’s, which means none of the ideas go much beyond an image or two. It’s very annoying to
The cursor blinks. It’s been doing that for very many hours, an enervating reminder of the fact that so far I have written not one single word in my new novel. Or rather I have, but I’ve deleted it just as fast. The most irritating aspect is that I know exactly what I want to
It has arrived. Not by stork, but by lorry, but the feeling is much the same as that of holding a child. My book. I can heft it in my hand, my imaginary world made real through the sheer weight of the paperback with my name on the spine. Miniature bubbles fizz their way up
Writing can at times be a most meditative pursuit. No, hang on; meditative is the wrong word. Writing can at times allow me some minutes – hours – of total oblivion, an experience very similar to that of being sucked into a fantastic book but the other way around. When I’m engulfed in a book,
“Damn him!” I slam the table so hard my hand hurts. “How can he do that? Bloody idiot of a man!” I go on, muttering a number of creative expletives before returning to my editing. “You wrote that,” my husband protests mildly from his side of the table. “And will you stop whacking at the
In this rather hectic world of ours, now and then one will hear parents talking about quality time with their kids. “Yes, I only see them for like one hour before they have to go to bed, but it’s quality time, you know?” Hmm. As an experienced mother, I’m sorry to tell you it doesn’t