“Come on, Marie.” I dragged her from the chair. Twelve stone, my arse. Always dieting, she was; always complaining and drinking her gin, now slumped in the garden with a wet mouth and puffy eyes. I resumed my grip beneath her arms, supporting her weight. “That’s marriage,” I supposed. Later, I breathed in the silence. …
This is the last day of CampNaNoWriMo which challenges writers to complete 50,000 words of a novel during the month of July. I don’t like the whole ‘winner’ moniker, but mission duly accomplished.
With five days remaining, I have topped 40,000 words. The month’s progress as evidenced by the helpful little chart is more erratic than I would have hoped, but certainly more focused than I had expected.
I am battling an addiction. Like any potent drug, it’s become an indelible part of me. Test my bones and you will find traces there. I was exposed to this compulsion in early childhood and I still remember how it harnessed the passion of my teenage years. In the decades since, I’ve often broken the …
Write when you don’t know from what dried up source it might come. Write when the screen is blank and forbidding. Write when the words simply halt and falter. Write when the keys feel unfamiliar. Just write.
Recognition patters in my head like the wings of a moth. I do not want to grasp it because this hidden knowledge has power. The crouched figure is holding something in the water. I must stop it. From Lost Summer by SJG. The editing process can seem endless. Copyright © 2019 theRuncibility.com, all …
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 