The serious writer looks back on a long and distinguished career as an herbologist. Her favourite bush grows in Central Park and is called Noah’s Ark by the residents because of the myriad of animals that it shelters.
December 1, 2009 – 12:00 am
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By flawnt
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Posted in podcast, published, the serious writer, thePictureGoers, writerlyAdvice
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Tagged ark, bush, Central Park, names, Noah, podcast, serious, writer, writerly, writing
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The serious writer lifts his ideas like limp lychees from anywhere and anyone. Anything and anyone crossing his path becomes material. He turns silly stuff into junk and junk into art.
November 30, 2009 – 2:31 am
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By flawnt
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Posted in the serious writer, writerlyAdvice
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Tagged art, bamboo, Holmes, Iron John, lychee, Moriarty, plant, podcast, serious, Watson, writer, writing
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Maggie thought Nicholas could need some trimming around the beltline and that he was a nice man with potential to be a lot more than a nice man, a treasure hunter, a mysterious, hairy gollywoggle.
November 23, 2009 – 7:22 am
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By flawnt
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Posted in bloody management, podcast
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Tagged autumn, bloody management, circle, draft, gollywoggle, gravitation, Maggie Monahan, man, NaNoWriMo, Nicholas Dart, podcast, sex
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He moves his household to a deserted location called Loch Llamorgan. He buys a large shovel, which he covers with tattoos lifted from a book of Maori motives. He anticipates a journey of many moons. He drives to the local liquor store and purchases supplies.
October 26, 2009 – 12:27 pm
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By flawnt
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Posted in podcast, published, the serious writer, writerlyAdvice
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Tagged CCTV, flash, Llamorgan, Maori, novel, podcast, serious, writer, writerly
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“it was all miserable: the weather, the health, the job, the relationship. everything seemed soggy and wet. i had a cold. i couldn’t face one more day in the office or else. nobody loved me or if they did, i had not met them yet.”
October 11, 2009 – 11:48 am
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By flawnt
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Posted in podcast, published, writerlyAdvice
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Tagged 1957, cold, death, health, immortality, misty, podcast, science, sickness, writing
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Honey-coated cashews stood next to her bedside table and her lampshade carried long-forgotten symbols that had last been seen during the first crusade. She was of mixed breeding which amounted to no breeding at all.
he suddenly knew how he’d paint the priest: standing in the door of the brothel with his shock of hair shooting off in all directions and the hair and the door frame talking to each other like intelligent earthworms, and the same hairy lines pursuing each other in all directions from the house across the sky
The child sits at the lake shore and everything is happening around him. Not some things, all things, all the time and at the same time. He puts out his tongue in the sun under the clear blue sky. My tongue feels funny against the sky. I touch the sand and the sand touches me …
