Many years ago, Becky was a sweet teenager in my class. When she left school, I didn’t see her, but over the years, we’ve connected over Facebook. When I read that Becky had a brain tumour and, after surgery, subsequently…
‘Would you like a digestif? Limoncello? It’s on the house.’ The waiter, dressed impossibly tight, black jeans, white-tight t-shirt, thick leather belt, ankles bare above leather loafers, hipster beard, sculpted hair—you get the picture—tilts his head and we shrug a…
The Music of Life: Writing in Italy The pop of a cork from a Prosecco bottle. Soft, murmuring Italian voices. Cucina. Mangiare. Si Grazie. Bene. Words, food, sharing, friendship in a bookshop café in Florence. My friend and I sit…
There is a season for wildness and a season for settledness, and this is neither. This season is about becoming. Shauna Niequist I call myself a writer, but I haven’t written anything in the last two weeks. Travelling in Italy…
It was 9am on the 26th of February 2010. I sat down at the kitchen table with a coffee and my notebook. I had an idea—an idea that I wanted to write a novel. I’d met a character in my…
To create art, you need building materials. Not just physical materials like canvas, film, or banjos. First, you need an internal supply of building materials like vision, determination, and inspiration. Products of the soul. Michael Gungor I’m re-reading Stephen King’s…