In the words of birthday boy Neil Gaiman; How to become a writer

Following  a tumbler request for advice on how to become a writer Neil Gaiman let us all in on the secret. Read on for the secret to literary success.

Write the ideas down. If they are going to be stories, try and tell the stories you would like to read. Finish the things you start to write. Do it a lot and you will be a writer. The only way to do it is to do it. 

I’m just kidding. There are much easier ways of doing it. For example: On the top of a distant mountain there grows a tree with silver leaves. Once every year, at dawn on April 30th, this tree blossoms, with five flowers, and over the next hour each blossom becomes a berry, first a green berry, then black, then golden.
At the moment the five berries become golden, five white crows, who have been waiting on the mountain, and which you will have mistaken for snow, will swoop down on the tree, greedily stripping it of all its berries, and will fly off, laughing.
You must catch, with your bare hands, the smallest of the crows, and you must force it to give up the berry (the crows do not swallow the berries. They carry them far across the ocean, to an enchanter’s garden, to drop, one by one, into the mouth of his daughter, who will wake from her enchanted sleep only when a thousand such berries have been fed to her). When you have obtained the golden berry, you must place it under your tongue, and return directly to your home.
For the next week, you must speak to no-one, not even your loved ones or a highway patrol officer stopping you for speeding. Say nothing. Do not sleep. Let the berry sit beneath your tongue.
At midnight on the seventh day you must go to the highest place in your town (it is common to climb on roofs for this step) and, with the berry safely beneath your tongue, recite the whole of Fox in Socks. Do not let the berry slip from your tongue. Do not miss out any of the poem, or skip any of the bits of the Muddle Puddle Tweetle Poodle Beetle Noodle Bottle Paddle Battle.
Then, and only then, can you swallow the berry. You must return home as quickly as you can, for you have only half an hour at most before you fall into a deep sleep.
When you wake in the morning, you will be able to get your thoughts and ideas down onto the paper, and you will be a writer. 
Solved it. I’m off in search of white crows…

Autumn fireworks

Summer’s heat left him something to prove,

Few audiences rejoice the retirement of shorts,

The onset of radiators or winters barren branches,

And so,

Autumn imitated spring with his display.

Auburn, burgundy, mustard,

Shades stolen from a child’s palate,

Dolloped intermittently across his tired subjects,

beguiled into a last hurrah.

Waiting For Morning to Come

I just have to reblog this! It’s so perfect.

Worldly Winds

fe1d6a29efe7eb2fda4d7d081c5944d4The chastising tut

of the petulant clock

as I’m waiting

for morning to come

I stifle a yawn

in the hours before dawn

as I’m waiting

for morning to come

My pillow concrete

as my dreams beat retreat

and I’m waiting

for morning to come

Inky, stifling, air

at the ceiling I stare

and I’m waiting

for morning to come

I long for the sun

and this night to be done

as I’m waiting

for morning to come

© Waiting For Morning to Come 26.04.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:



View original post

Christmas Washing: Ephemeral mundanity

For this weeks fleeting moment photo challenge I had many ideas. (A key contender being my photo of a cheeky monkey scamp investigating a hapless tourists fallen shopping bag – before swiftly making off with the stolen bounty.)

But then I thought, what better way of demonstrating the pleasure of an ephemeral moment then by contrasting it with an everyday (seemingly endless moment)? If only I had a photo where someone chose to spend a magical fleeting moment (like Christmas day) doing something mundane (like washing).

Fortunately, I hang out with oddballs. Consequently, I have a series of photos where said oddballs chose a day that occurs once every 365 to do their washing (complete with cracker hats and alcohol).




 Post presented as part of the weekly photo challenge.

(Monkey looting tourists picture available on request. It’s a corker.)

“The glint of light on broken glass”

A great reminder of an essential lesson!

The Daily Post

Not only did Chekhov dispense great writing advice, he was a sharp dresser, too. Not only did Chekhov dispense great writing advice, he was a snappy dresser, too.

In college, my writing professors shared a constant refrain: “show, don’t tell.” I had a hard time grasping this nuance of writerly advice until I discovered a quote by Anton Chekhov — a Russian physician considered to be one of the greatest short story writers of all time:

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
–Anton Chekhov

For me, reading this quote made “showing” “click.” Not only does showing make writing far more interesting to read, it’s free of that boring clunkiness — that perceptible weight telling hangs on innocent passages of text that make them drag for the reader.

Often these “showing” parts make you swoon and sweep you off your feet. Consider this passage from one of my favorite novels of all-time: The Shipping News

View original post 141 more words