Writers are surely an insecure breed, in constant need of reassurance. For a start, we have proclaimed ourselves writers. That epithet carries an unspoken weight beyond the obvious definition of she who writes. We’ve elevated ourselves to the same category as each reader’s favourite author. We showcase the extent of our imaginative skills to a …
Suddenly, I can smell baked tarmac and sap. The haze of summer fills my lungs. My feet are sticky with grass stains and heat is everywhere, hard on brick and skin and clotting the air. I hear laughter, quick and light. Beneath the scent of roses something sweet and rotten lies thick on my tongue. …
Writing has to go somewhere. I’m afraid you will be lumbered with it here.
Runcibility 