I’m not much of a sunshine fiend, and get a bit antsy in the absence of intellectual stimulation. I’ve rebelled
I was in Oxford last week to attend a series of workshops as part of my Masters in Creative Writing. I
Look at these old photographs. They’re the kinds of photographs you can imagine adorning a mantelpiece or bedside locker. They’re
I’m a person who gets a kick out of being ever-so-slightly frightened, and is interested in unusual, strange experiences (I love to be purposely vague), and so I booked tickets for me and my friend Kam to visit the McKittrick Hotel in Chelsea for ‘Sleep No More’, an immersive theatre show produced by Punchdrunk Theatre. It was sensational.
I’m not sure that the female friendship has ever been honoured very effectively in the fiction novel. The closest I’ve come to a good and satisfying portrayal of female friendship is in the book My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante. And I did not love that novel.
They say the best stories are the ones you see on the radio. That is to say, when we hear
“I just wouldn’t know where to start. I wouldn’t know what to write about.”
WHAT. I’ve heard this so many times from people who profess to being really interested in writing something: a short story, a play, a novel. I try to hide my incredulity but… You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Everyone’s got a hundred stories in them – at least!