How important are Daily Rituals to Writers..?

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Dare to be complicated – be the child’s robot that sings sweet Child O’Mine. – from notes in my phone.

‘How d’you find time to write?’ has to be one of the most common responses to any writer announcing they are starting another novel, as though they’ve found some secret stash of time under the stairs in that strange old chest that glows after midnight. It’s not a football match, there’s always time, although you may not necessarily be around to see it. Life is simply how you choose to spend our time. Cooks like to literally chop stuff up while crime writers enjoy chopping stuff up literally. Besides, having time to write doesn’t automatically mean you’ll do any. In fact, give someone unlimited time and they’ll achieve nothing, beyond the ability to mumble mañana beneath their breath.  As we know, nothing fuels invention like necessity.

Writing is like grabbing…

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We need to talk about what’s Cool.

The latest from my favourite – definitely very cool – writer.

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

It’s been apparent for years that some people are cooler than others and it has to stop. No UK political party has ever addressed it, not even Corbyn’s Labour, so it’s clearly not a vote winner, which once again is cool people’s gain. And the rest of us? Well, we’re just left on the slag heap of credibility.

These days its harder to determine who’s cool thanks to art students and hipsters who dress like children fumbling in the dark with access to nothing but high-waisted jeans, 70s beanie hats and shoes rounder than Cobbler Smurf’s. I saw someone with a rolled up cigarette inserted through her ear apparently pierced for this exact purpose. She’s clearly someone who wants the people to know that she smokes, even when she isn’t. Is that cool? She clearly thinks it is. Of course it’s hard to define cool, through doing so you instantly lose…

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Inky Stains

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I’m not attempting to emulate the great poets. I’m not trying to rekindle a flame, revive the names of those long dead.

I follow no rules. If anything, I break them. I just pick up words, that are lying here and there, infuse them with my ardour, my breaths. Watch them take flight, carrying my feelings, my thoughts, my whispers, to the world.

Little pieces of my heart and my mind… ending up stuffed in dirty gutters… or lining opulent boulevards.

It matters little either way… what does is the need, the necessity, to open up my veins, bleed out the pain, release the trop-plein that would otherwise slowly suffocate me — if glory there is to be, then I’ll take it by all means… but it is not the motivation or the impetus for the inky stains I leave behind me.

The same words and feelings echoed by so many people, so many of us out there, doing it all in our different ways. The same words…different voices…different noises. I’m not pretending to be anyone but me. I have no wish to be anyone else.

Image credit: potterhead-writer.deviantart.com