You know when you read something on the internet that incenses you beyond reason? I’m not talking so much about the times an elected official says something eye-wateringly racist / awful about women’s reproductive rights / climate change denial-y. I’m more thinking of the comments that come from unexpected places. The ones that get under your skin and make you want to shout at people who have ultimately only expressed a personal opinion. Continue reading “How To Arrange A Bookshelf”
I don’t always take notes when I’m reading. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s pretty rare these days. I’m more likely to take a photo of a passage I like and put it on Instagram with a linear tilt shift filter over the salient point (hashtag ‘relatable’).
The festival has finished, the nights are drawing in, and it is time to reflect upon the sensory overload that has become my go-to excuse for not writing as much as I ought to in August.
Today I will be talking about IQ84 by Haruki Murakami, a book I finished at half past midnight and have mixed feelings about. This blog post will contain **SPOILERS**, so if you haven’t read it and are planning to do so you may wish to bail. I would offer you this counsel before you head though: if you’ve never read Murakami before, maybe don’t start here.
This post, entitled An Intense Young Man At An Open Mic Night, could just as easily be called The One Where My Husband Writes A Book. Or the more passive aggressive One Where My Husband Has A Book Out Before I Do And Is Now Dead To Me. Or maybe The One Where My Husband Has A Book Out Next Week But It’s Only Poetry So Pfft. Continue reading “An Intense Young Man At An Open Mic Night”
A lot of writers have day jobs. Making a living from wordsmithery alone is not as easy as it was in the days of Shakespeare, when all you had to do was be one of two local writers that could hold a quill in order to go down in history. These days everyone with a notes function on their phone can have a go, slush piles are the size of the giant redwood, and rather than trawling through them publishers turn to the equally underqualified beautiful celebrities instead. I think that’s how it works, anyway – this précis is brought to you by much reading of articles on the state of publishing today and not through direct experience of having my own work passed over in favour of very tall footballer Peter Crouch. Continue reading “When Writers Commute”