The below is a very, very short story I named ‘Until Five’. I kind of like it in a bleak sort of way and I doubt I’ll ever do anything with it, so that’s why I’m posting it here. Until Five One of my legs feels fuzzy against the other, like a kiwi. I can’tContinue reading “Until Five [fiction]”
I don’t know why I was so nervous about going to the writer’s workshop last night but I really, really was. It seems that all of life is a succession of scary things we have to make ourselves do. What I find ‘scary’ changes day-to-day and is largely dependent on what mood I’m in. SometimesContinue reading “Take your work seriously, not yourself”
Last week I spent five and a half days in the rural Languedoc Roussillon region of France at the house my grandparents have spent 27 summers restoring from a ruin.
Jack Morke wanted a whisky. He’d never particularly wanted a whisky before, but now he wanted one more than anything. Preferably in one of those round weighted tumblers with big ice cubes that rattled against the sides. Men drank whisky. Men with problems. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.