If you’ve ever read a blog post about story structure then you’ll be familiar with the whole Hero’s Journey… thing. You know he’s got a thousand faces, and there’s this thing that’s like the big rock from 2001 only it represents myths? The guy who does the soup also does literary criticism? It’s confusing, I know.
If we’re going by the blogological output alone, there are three schools of thought: Continue reading
It’s December, the Dead Month. Agents are otherwise engaged or closed for submissions, your family is climbing down the chimney to scream about your lifestyle choices, and all your anxieties are focused on the holiday season rather than on your work.
Submissions season is over, and the ejections have been sent. Here’s how you deal with them. Continue reading
When you finish the first draft of a novel, your natural instinct is to tell someone. The predictable response amongst writers is for the listener’s head to detach and start rolling through the air, drawing breath through unknown means and screeching the word ‘rewrite’ until the walls begin to close in. Dark circles blossom beneath the wallpaper. Is it blood? It might be. Continue reading
(Note: before publishing I asked myself whether this letter was too mean-spirited and unprofessional to publish. Then I imagined what it would be like to read Ryan’s article after having been one of his students and stopped worrying.)
If I had more money I’d buy one of those days-passed-since-last-incident counters for the wall above my desk, so that I could record the frequency with which self-congratulatory internet thinkpieces send me into a frothing rage. Today’s candidate is a twelve-hundred word article about writing, by internationally-renowned bestselling author Ryan Boudinot. Really? Never? Well, I suppose you’re just not interested in real writing by real writers, then. Ryan is a real writer, and luckily for you he’s happy to explain why. Continue reading
She wasn’t important, in the grand scheme of things.
Cat didn’t recognise the front desk, or the podgy bald man sat behind it reading the paper. She looked back and didn’t recognise the front door, either. Or the street outside.
Timmy had grown old. Death sat in the corner, drumming her fingers on the windowsill and turning the pages of an old issue of Time.
not today, then? She asked.