Tag: Writing
Years come in waves, undulating their way atop the days and the months, until before you know it you have to get used to a brand new arbitrary number at the end of things. 2011 – doesn’t that sound strange? 1st January 2011 – even stranger, especially when reflecting back …
I seem to be at least a fortnight behind with my recent blogging. All I can say is that unprecedented distractions (in a variety of guises – work, play and otherwise) have resulted in minimal writing time.
Watching Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s Wife, defend her Twittering on HIGNFY the other day made me ponder the appeal of Twitter, or what I like to think of as ‘The Pretentious Bluebird’.
Last year, I read Elizabeth M. Gilbert’s quest story Eat, Pray, Love. Taglined as ‘One woman’s search for everything’, and based on Gilbert’s own experiences, the book is the kind of popularised self-help/spiritual crossover that appeals to the specific female market that made Chicken Soup for the Soul a global …
To preface this belated follow-up to my Boyd post: I did of course promise to offer my thoughts on Ordinary Thunderstorms about a month ago, but I’m both forgetful and busy, for which I make no apologies. I’ve just finished a trio of books that all happen to be set …
When I found myself defending my reasons yet again for my admittedly odd obsession with Piers Morgan yesterday, I figured it was time to put my feelings ‘out there’ (and by ‘there’ I mean the blogosphere).
Just to preface this, what follows is a completely selfish blog post; the below travel journal entry won’t mean as much to anyone else as it does to me. But I hope it conveys the triumph of experience over opinion.
I’m in two minds about tattoos. On the one hand, they’re art. And I make it a habit to love all art (or at least try to). On the other, they’re a permanent fixture in a world of perpetual change. And as we all know (it’s been ingrained in us …
Due to popular demand, I have decided to reveal my time-honoured secret recipe to my Asian-Mexican veggie spicy dish, designed for people who hate tradition. Stop the press.
Discovering a new author is like that moment of realising that someone who you thought was just an acquaintance might actually become a huge part of your life: you’ve got more in common than you previously thought. You rebuke yourself with the obvious question: “Why didn’t I see it before?”
